


A Sword Laid Aside

by korlaena



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Camping, Case Fic, Coming Untouched, Community: harrydracobang, Confronting Personal Demons, Dark Content Related to Case, Desi!Harry Potter, Domestic, Draco works undercover, Edging, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fallen Hero Harry, Fluff, Forced Proximity, Fugitive Draco, Hand Jobs, Harry and Draco are in their 40s, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Character Death, Motorcycles, On the Run, Past Drug Addiction, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Platonic Affection, Powerful Harry, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Safehouses, Self-Hatred, Sleep disorders, Slow Burn, Switching, Top Harry, Wrongful Imprisonment, hermit Harry, past Draco/OMC, some drinking, some smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 11:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 128,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16062536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korlaena/pseuds/korlaena
Summary: When Draco’s cover is blown during a deep undercover operation and the Ministry is compromised, Ron takes Draco to the only safe place he can think of—Potter. Hiding out with a taciturn Harry Potter, who has been missing from the Wizarding World for almost two decades after a shocking fall from grace, is nothing like Draco thought it would be. Draco has to navigate dealing with this Potter while being hunted by Dark wizards and wanted by extremists in the Ministry. When things take a turn for the worse, Draco has to decide whether he's going to keep running or find a way to protect the world and the people he cares about most.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018. 
> 
> **Author's Notes:**  
>  I can't thank the mods enough for putting together this enormous and almost year-long fest! Writing a fic this long was a monumental challenge, but I had so much fun doing it and I'm so grateful to have had the opportunity to participate. The mods were all rock stars and did a fabulous job organising and running this fest.  
> Many, many thanks to my incredible beta, [Maesterchill](https://maesterchill.tumblr.com/). I appreciate every minute you put into this beast, your comments and suggestions and corrections were so incredibly helpful and insightful. I can't thank you enough for your patience, dedication, and willingness to work with our schedules and my insanity.  
> Thanks to my wonderful artists, [Saulaie](https://saulaie.tumblr.com/) and [prettypurpleflower](http://prettypurpleflower.tumblr.com/), for their beautiful artwork, and for all the time they put in to illustrating this fic. It was a pleasure to work with both of you!  
> Special thanks to the lickable Saulaie, who helped me so much by being a great listener, a great shoulder to cry on, and the best support I could have asked for. Getting to know you, and to get an offering of such great ideas and advice has been the most rewarding outcome.
> 
> This fic was inspired in part by the song I'll Surely Die by the Rubens. Listen to it here on [YouTube](https://youtu.be/g5R4NPe08Sg) and here on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/505hcmko3QLhVyuQNGOdDW).  
> The title is from Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy reading this! Please check the chapter notes for warnings.
> 
>  **Artist's Notes:  
> **  
>  **Saulaie —**  Gotta thank the mods again for their work, and for assigning me to another brilliant fic and writer. It was a delight to draw for this, and to read it, and to wait for the updates, and to yell at Korlaena a lot in between those things. She satisfied my long haired, bearded, older!Harry needs and I can't thank her enough for that. There were obviously so many amazing scenes to choose from, and the 2 I finally went for are beautiful examples of how well Korlaena writes growing love and tenderness between H & D, and I truly hope I managed to capture that in what I did. ENJOY!
> 
>  **prettypurpleflower —** Working with korlaena to get my painting together has been a wonderful journey. From the first second I was determined to do something with the bike theme of the story, even though and also because I have no clue about bikes. My piece went through a lot of changes since that first idea and I hope the end result will make you guys happy. Last but not least, thank you to korlaena for the amazing story and the mods for the fest!

  


“I was born free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside.”  
\- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

  


* * *

  


The crack as they land echoes through the empty courtyard, seeming too loud in the stillness of the night. Draco’s not sure where Ron has Apparated them to—they’ve hardly spoken a word since escaping the raid. 

He releases Ron’s forearm and casts his gaze around their surroundings. It’s not any place that Draco recognises—it seems Muggle, based on the cars and the shopfronts. 

The area is diffused in fog, the only light coming from street lamps and moonlight which paint the stone buildings and walkways a cold, dark grey. The town seems unusually still in this late hour, and the strangeness of it sets his nerves on edge. 

Draco can hear noises of the city in the distance, but the loudest sound is his own racing heart, pounding like the drums of a warship in his ears. Ron and Draco are panting from the exertion of the fight they just escaped. Draco is trying to quiet his breath and let his heart rate go down, though his mind is racing and his eyes are darting about for any sign of danger. 

Ron is still as he surveys the area. He looks over to Draco and gives a short nod, which Draco returns, and they move forward together, their pace fast but measured. 

The heels of his shoes click against the cobblestones and echo ominously around the brick and stone buildings that surround them. Draco tightens his grip on his wand, feeling reassured by the weight of it in his palm, and he keeps his gaze constantly moving as Ron leads them down the unfamiliar streets. 

A warm trickle of blood runs behind his ear and down his neck, and Draco wipes it away absently. He knows Ron is hurt too, but there’s no time to stop and assess any injuries. The adrenaline surging through his veins keeps the pain at bay and his feet moving.

Before long they turn down a narrow street with a line of cars parked along one side. Ron slows their pace and eyes each car in turn, then seems to make up his mind and stops beside one. They both turn their heads to look up and down the street, and Ron discreetly taps his wand to the Muggle vehicle. He glances at Draco and jerks his head toward the car in silent gesture. 

Draco purses his lips but moves around the other side and gets into the passenger seat. The car feels cramped and alien to Draco, and he levels an unimpressed look at Ron, who looks even more cramped than Draco feels, what with his long limbs bunched up and his head nearly touching the ceiling.

“Harder to track,” Ron says and shrugs by way of explanation, breaking their cautious silence now that they are in an enclosed space. 

“Are you even capable of handling this Muggle contraption?” Draco asks, watching as Ron somehow makes his seat move down and back and wrangles some strange strap about himself. 

“Put your seatbelt on,” Ron directs instead of answering.

“My what?”

“Your seatbelt,” Ron says and points, “by your shoulder.”

Draco huffs but he turns to see the same sort of strap Ron had just dealt with, and it extends out when he pulls at it. He glances to Ron, but Ron is looking up and down the street through the windows, surveying the area again. 

Draco holds the strap out, not exactly sure how one is meant to put it on, and then settles for holding it against himself. Ron is busy tapping his wand to the car, which makes it create a low growling noise that fades to more of a hum. He has no earthly idea if this device is supposed to make such a noise, but Ron seems satisfied and only then turns his attention back to Draco. 

A crease appears on his forehead, and then Ron is reaching over for the strap Draco is still holding uselessly. He grabs at a buckle on it and clicks it into something next to Draco’s seat, and Draco watches and lets him do all this with a small frown. 

“You never answered whether you know how to work this thing,” Draco points out dryly. 

Ron smiles at him, though Draco can tell that it’s strained, and he says breezily, “ ‘Course I do. I drove one to school second year, din’ I?”

“Yes, of course,” Draco says and rolls his eyes. “Drove it straight into the Whomping Willow, if memory serves.”

“And it was a good learning experience,” Ron concludes as he wiggles a shaft between their seats. 

The car lurches forward and then stops abruptly, making both of them jerk forward and get stopped by the seatbelts. Now Draco thinks he understands their purpose. 

Draco sighs and closes his eyes as Ron continues to work the strange components of the vehicle. Somehow, they end up moving backward and then forward, and Draco doesn’t open his eyes until he feels that they are moving steadily down the street.

“Merlin help me,” Draco mutters. “Out of all the Aurors of course I’d get stuck with a foolhardy Gryffindor who seems to think that _crashing_ a vehicle is proof of being able to operate it competently.”

The words are light and humorous, a contrast to every one of Draco’s nerves that are currently on high alert. The familiar comfort of teasing is needed to release some tension and add levity to the heavy situation they have found themselves in.

The corner of Ron’s mouth moves up in a brief smile, barely there and gone again with hardly enough time to notice. 

Outside of their current situation, Ron seems older and more careworn than he last remembers. Draco has been deep undercover for the last three years and it’s been a while since he has had a face-to-face with his Auror handler. 

Much as he likes to complain, the truth is that Draco is happy he was assigned to Ron. It was difficult at first, but they found a rhythm through the years and tonight has only served to prove once again that Draco can trust Ron with his life. 

When it’s apparent Ron is not going to respond and seems occupied with driving, Draco lets it go with the small hope that Ron won’t crash them into a tree. 

Ron’s forehead is creased again and occasionally he fusses with the shaft between them, doing something with his legs as well. Draco watches how his eyes dart out the window in front of them and in circuits around the mirrors on the car. 

At this late hour, all of the shops and businesses are closed, and the first sign of other life is a car driving past them in the opposite direction. At this point Draco would like to think that the chances of having been followed are low, but he hasn’t survived these long years without preparing for the worst. 

Draco looks out the window for several minutes in silence, watching the town pass by, the other cars on the road, and the occasional pedestrian. The seats seem to be leather and the car is too chill for Draco’s liking. There was no time to grab his heavier cloak before Ron was Apparating them out of the fight. Draco scarcely had time throw a set of robes over his pyjamas, grab his emergency kit and slip his boots on before the house had erupted into shouting and the bright flashes of curses. 

Draco shivers and then raises his wand to cast a Warming Charm. Ron’s hand shoots out and he holds it flat above Draco’s wand to stop him. 

“Don’t. It was Damian’s men what attacked you. If he’s got access to the Auror department they might know about the tracker we have on your wand.”

Draco sighs and puts his wand down. He doesn’t put it away, because if they do get attacked again he wants it ready and in hand, tracker be damned at that point. He settles for grumbling, “It’s too bloody cold in this damned thing.”

Ron grunts, presumably in agreement. “The car can make heat. It’s one of these buttons, I’m not sure,” he mutters and starts fiddling with the panel of buttons in front of them. Draco bats his hand away irritably. If he’s going to deliver them anywhere safely he won’t to do it while not watching where they’re going. 

“I told you that tracker was the very worst idea,” Draco spits with a bit more venom than he intends to.

“And I told you that there’s no choice in it,” Ron snaps back. “Good job we had it too, or I wouldn’t have been able to save your arse every damn—”

“ _—FOR THE GODS, FADING RESISTANCE, DRAINING THE WEAKNESS—_ ” 

Draco yelps, and both he and Ron jump when the music blares inside the car, growling at them at top volume. Draco scrambles to hit the buttons before he manages to push the one that turns the music off. 

Draco’s heart is in his throat, thrumming wildly. He takes large gulps of breath, trying to calm the heart rate he had only just got back to resting. 

Ron looks over and Draco meets his wide-eyed gaze. There’s a split second where neither of them say anything, and then both of them break out into a loud peal of laughter. Draco holds his stomach with one hand and his face with the other, his whole body shaking. Ron wheezes and wipes his eyes, trying to pay attention to the road and fight the wide grin splitting his face and the laughter rolling through his body. 

“Mother of Merlin, what in the _world_ do these Muggles listen to?” Draco huffs out, which starts them both laughing again shortly. 

Ron darts another quick, amused look at Draco and then shakes his head. 

“If I ever step another foot into one of these things again it will be too soon,” Draco says. “Really? Stealing a Muggle vehicle? Why on Earth, Weasley?” 

Ron smiles and chuckles, answering lightly, “You know we can’t Floo. And it’s not as if we have brooms. And I don’t want to keep Apparating if they can track our wands.”

Draco gives a noncommittal hum in reply, quiet for a moment, and then asks, “Where are you even taking us?”

Ron’s hands tighten around the wheel and his mouth pinches before he answers, “Somewhere safe.”

◊ ◊ ◊

It’s taking much longer to get to their destination than Draco would have expected. Mainly because Ron is taking a long, winding path. 

At first Draco had wondered if Ron was lost and if he was even capable of navigating the Muggle cities. After the second time he’d noticed Ron go three times around the same block, he had concluded that Ron was actually checking to make sure they weren’t being followed. 

Draco notices when Ron watches the mirrors a little too closely, seeming suspicious of another car behind them, but nothing ever comes of it. Even if the idea of wizard pursuers coming in the form of a Muggle vehicle is completely absurd, they hadn’t each lived for forty-plus years without being as cautious as they are.

Draco is exhausted, mentally and physically, but he wouldn’t be able fall asleep even if he wanted to. They make some small talk during the ride, and Draco figures out how to get the car to create heat and play music that isn’t what Ron calls ‘Death Metal’.

After the first few attempts at getting Ron to divulge where they are going with no success, Draco gives up on trying to discern their destination. They go through several small farming towns, and Draco has very little idea of where they end up, only than that it’s Muggle and in the country. Miraculously, they make the drive without Ron crashing them into a tree.

By the time Ron pulls the car over and stops completely, the sun has recently risen, and the sky is changing from oranges and pinks into a light blue. They had passed through the main street a short while ago and seem to be on the edge of the town, next to what looks to be an automobile repair shop connected to a house and set by a grove of trees apart from neighbouring houses. The words ‘BLACK BIKES & REPAIRS’ sit atop the open garage filled with motorbikes, which Draco can see through its two open garage doors. 

“Where are we?” 

“Holmbridge. Stay here,” Ron says, pinning Draco with a stern look. “I need to talk to him first.”

“Who, exactly?” Draco asks impatiently.

Ron purses his lips and dodges the question with a sighed, “Just stay put.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but he stays in the car as Ron gets out. He watches as Ron looks around the area, then walks across the street and up to the house. He goes to knock on the front door but is waylaid by the appearance of a man in the garage, standing up from behind a motorbike that had hidden his presence. 

It makes Draco feel ill at ease, the sudden appearance of him. At this distance and angle all Draco can make out is a middle-aged looking man with dark skin, long black hair that reaches just past his broad shoulders, and a short beard. 

Draco squints at them in suspicion as Ron pulls the stranger into a tight hug and pats his back. They start to talk, and Draco watches their interactions, but the man’s body language is minimal and hard to read. He seems vaguely familiar, but Draco can’t get a good enough look to place him.

Sitting and waiting is not something Draco is very good at. He feels trapped and exposed, sitting in the metal Muggle box. It sets his teeth on edge, but Ron has asked him to stay so that’s what he does. He trusts Ron, and it doesn’t even hurt anymore to admit to it.

Draco pulls his emergency kit out of his robe pocket, a nice little buckskin pouch with an Extension Charm that Hermione had gifted him several Christmases ago. He roots around in it until he finds what he’s looking for and pulls out one of his Extendable Ears. 

Espionage has been Draco’s game going on fifteen years now, and if Weasley thinks he can have some secret conversation about him with a stranger, then he has seriously misjudged his partner. Draco will stay put alright, but he won’t be left out.

Over the years Draco has added some of his own charms to the Extendable Ears, Disillusioning them and making them easier to manipulate. He cracks his door open and slips the ear out of it, twisting and tapping the end of it to make it grow and wiggle its way across the street into the garage. 

Once it seems close enough, Draco puts the end near his ear and holds his breath to listen.

“—won’t be for long, I swear. You know I wouldn’t involve you if there were any other option, but I think the Auror office is compromised, which means our safehouses are compromised,” Draco can hear Ron’s pleading voice explaining to the man. 

The dark stranger says nothing but nods his understanding. 

Ron continues in a relieved rush, “A week, tops. I just need to explain the situation, show them Draco’s file, show them our sting operation. It’s a huge mistake on their part, probably some young little twit trying to impress Dami—er, trying to make an impression. For now, I just need them not to lock up my star player with a bunch of wizards who just found out he’s been grassin’ on them.”

“It’s fine, Ron. He can stay,” the stranger finally speaks. He turns his head towards the car and the light catches on a pair of glasses.

It’s only years of training that keep his face carefully clear of the shock that just shot through his body like a bolt of lightning—no pun intended. He may not have recognised him right off, but Draco would know that voice anywhere. 

Ron has taken him to Harry sodding Potter.

Draco is pretending to be leaning his head in his hand against his door in boredom, but really he’s watching them out the corner of his eye and cupping the end of the Extendable Ear next to his own ear. Draco holds his carefully posed nonchalance as if his brain hadn’t just Bombarda-ed itself. 

Everyone knows Ron and Potter were best of friends as children, and Draco had wondered if Ron might still be in contact with him, but where Draco prides himself on seeing every piece on the board and therefore never being surprised, he had truly never seen this coming. 

Never in a hundred lifetimes would Draco ever expect to see or even hear of Harry Potter again. The man had completely disappeared from Wizarding society nearly two decades back after killing a suspect, being ousted as a potions addict, and then shamefully tried by the Wizengamot and discharged from the Aurors. 

No one has seen or heard from him since. Except perhaps Ron and Hermione. They must be the only witch and wizard who know where Harry Potter has been hiding himself all these years. 

Out of curiosity, Draco had poked around the subject with Ron and Hermione a few times years ago, but they had both seemed convincing enough when they said they didn’t know where he was. 

When Draco is done having his mind blown, he notices that Ron is speaking again, this time in a softer tone.

“—be careful. Don’t…” Ron trails off with a sigh, then continues, “Don’t get too attached.”

Potter? Attached to Draco? Not bloody likely.

After a moment Ron speaks again, his tone gentle but firm, “I’m sorry for shoving this on you, but I don’t want you getting involved. Just a week and then none of this is your problem, okay?”

“Do what you need to. Don’t worry about me,” Potter reassures Ron, though his tone falls flat to Draco’s ears. 

They seem to have some sort of silent communication happening between them, and then Ron is pulling Potter in for another quick hug. Draco quickly reels the ear back in, keeping his hands low to hide their activity, and carefully pulls his door shut right as Ron is turning to make his way back to the car.

The driver’s side door opens with a squeak. Ron drops down into the seat and shuts the door behind him. He turns to Draco, his expression like that of a soldier steeling himself to march into battle.

“You mean to strand me here with Potter,” Draco accuses before he can get a word out.

Ron’s eyebrows jump up briefly, seeming surprised that Draco has already figured out the identity of his custodian, and Draco scoffs.

“I have eyes, Weasley,” he snaps, despite the fact that he hadn’t actually recognised Potter at first glance. He looks quite different than Draco last remembers.

The surprised expression on Ron’s face fades back to its normal hard determination. “It won’t be for long, a few days, a week at most. Just give me enough time to clear up the utter shitshow Damian’s Dogs made of our operation.”

Draco folds his arms over his chest and sets his own stubborn expression. “You said you were taking me somewhere safe. How can I trust that he’s stable enough to not kill me in my sleep?”

“There’s nothing wrong with him!” Ron shouts so fiercely that Draco jumps a little and has his wand in his grip before he even knows he’s going for it.

After the shock fades, Draco glares at Ron, not at all impressed with his outburst. Ron sighs and runs a hand over his short hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologises. “Just...you trust me, yeah?”

Draco runs his tongue over his top row of teeth and huffs a short breath out his nose. “Merlin help me, but I do.”

“Then trust me on this,” Ron says, clearly fighting to keep his voice calm as he continues, “This is the absolute safest place I could take you. And I wouldn’t ever bring anyone here if _I_ didn’t trust them implicitly.”

Draco purses his lips and furrows his brow, but he nods his understanding. This is Harry Potter, after all, the fallen hero no one has seen in nearly twenty years. It is a show of trust on all sides for Draco to even be here. 

“If we rip each other apart, then on your head be it,” he can’t stop himself saying. 

“He won’t hurt you,” Ron emphasises again. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“Everyone has something wrong with them,” Draco says dryly.

Ron sighs and shakes his head, but it’s in an agreeable sort of way. “He’s not—I mean that he’s not _mad,_ he’s…” Ron trails off and looks at Draco, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How much of that did you hear?” he asks, jerking his head to gesture toward where he and Potter had been standing.

“Enough,” Draco drawls and smirks.

Ron throws a hand out irritably, then closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. When he looks back up at Draco, his expression is resigned. “Just—try not to be a git, okay? For me? You’re only staying here based on my good word.”

“Well, I _suppose_ if it’s for you…” Draco sighs, drawing out the vowels and using his inflection to express what a hardship this will be for him. He’s being sarcastic, but they both know that this _will_ be a hardship. 

They may be in their forties and well out of Hogwarts, but he and Potter had never gotten along. Draco resigns himself to the situation because he has no other choice. 

Besides, he’s been charming and beguiling Death Eaters, Dark witches and wizards and all of the most dangerous sort for much of his adult life. Handling Harry Potter for one week should be no problem. 

A bit of worry has snuck onto Ron’s face and Draco waves off his concern. 

“Relax, Ron. I’ll be fine. I’ll expect to hear from you soon.” Draco raises an eyebrow at him to punctuate the importance of that last bit, and Ron gives a brief smile and a nod in response. Draco hesitates for a second, then he adds, “Be careful.”

Ron smirks and shakes his head. “What are they going to do? Lock up the Head Auror?” 

Draco sees through his bravado. After the battle they just escaped, Draco’s not sure if there aren’t any boundaries Damian and the Anti-Dark Arts squad he runs won’t cross. The Huntsmen, they call themselves. More like hunting dogs, rabid as they are, Draco thinks bitterly. 

Draco fumbles a bit with the seatbelt but manages to free himself and step out of the car, grateful to finally be outside the stuffy Muggle Death Trap and be on his own two feet again. He watches Ron turn the thing around and drive away, and then Draco turns to face his fate. 

Across the street Potter is standing there, facing him, watching him, and Draco fights back a shiver crawling up his spine. Something about it reminds him of those Western movies Ron likes, of the good guy and the bad guy facing each other down for a duel at dusk. Only it’s morning, and there are no good guys or bad guys in this story—just a couple of aging men.

Draco shakes off the imagery and moves forward. Goosebumps rise on his arms as he crosses the street and strides up to Potter.

“Potter,” he greets and starts to extend his hand out when he notices the soiled state of Potter’s hands. He quickly changes course and clasps his hands behind his back, giving Potter a simple nod instead.

He knows by the way Potter’s eyes darted down to catch the movement that he is aware of Draco’s aborted handshake, but Draco refuses to feel badly for it.

“Malfoy,” Potter greets in turn and doesn’t offer his hand. His expression is something flat and neutral that Draco can’t read anything into. 

Now that he’s up close, Draco can get a much better look at the man.

Potter looks a mess—wild, unkempt hair hanging just below the crest of his shoulders, face full with an untrimmed beard that must be at least a couple months worth of not shaving. He is in some sort of blue bodysuit that’s splattered with old grey stains and fresh black smudges. His fingers are covered in the same mysterious black substance, as well as a red rag he’s wiping them with, though the rag is just as blemished and seems to be doing little more than spreading the mess around.

Gone is the knobbly, underfed youth of Draco’s memory, and in its place stands a fully fleshed out man. The exact shape of his figure is hard to determine by the workman’s bodysuit, but Draco can tell by the way he fills it out, the way it stretches over his shoulders, that he’s far better built than Draco would have imagined.

His face has weathered some with age, his skin looks even darker and richer than Draco remembers, no doubt from years spent in the sun. The creases around his mouth seem deeper, and crow’s feet decorate the sides of his eyes. Most of his hair is still that stark, jet black, but silver has crept up his sideburns and temples, and into two streaks of his beard that frame the bottom of his chin.

The one unchanged factor is those sharp, moss green eyes behind round glasses. Draco watches them move across him, seeing when they stop and note the blood on Draco’s neck and collar. Potter’s flat expression is unchanged by this discovery.

He wonders what sort of changes Potter might be seeing in Draco from his perspective, and he feels the familiar prickle of discomfort and insecurity from his own aging beauty. 

Draco has always thought of himself as a handsome man, a good mix of the Malfoy’s noble carriage and the Black’s comely features, as he had oft been told as a child. However, he is also hyper aware of the appearance of every new wrinkle on his face and his receding hairline. 

He knows his hairline could be worse; it resembles his father’s at his age so he still has a mostly full head of hair with all recession appearing at his temples, accentuating his widow’s peak. At one point he tried to grow it out, but when he started seeing his father in the mirror he had cut it short. Now it’s longer on the top, getting shorter down the sides and at his neck, as is fashionable these days.

Draco had always been blessed with a high metabolism, but it’s started to fail him more in recent years and has not been able to keep up as well with his opulent lifestyle of rich meals and a steady intake of wine. It’s left him with a softer belly than he would like, but he’s good at using well cut robes to hide any unseemly pudge. 

“Come on, then,” Potter says and moves toward the house. He enters not by the front door, but through a side door in the garage. He leaves it open, not bothering to look back and check if Draco is following him. 

Draco does follow him inside because he sees no other option. After he steps in, he closes the door behind himself and looks around. They have walked into a living room which is furnished with two worn, mismatched armchairs. 

The room is ringed with various houseplants and painted a light yellow. There’s a TV on one wall but hardly any pictures or paintings to be found. The only pictures Draco sees are a few lining the wall along the staircase. 

The space holds the strong scent of _someone else’s house,_ a smell that is always hard to define exactly. Potter’s house smells of something warm and vaguely sweet, clean and lived in, with lingering hints of a meal recently cooked. 

Potter takes Draco on an eerily silent tour of the house. He briefly shows him each room without introducing them—not that the grand total of six rooms need any introduction—until they get to the guest bedroom and Potter says, “This is yours.” 

Draco tries to keep any disdain from his face, but he’s not sure how successful he is. The house is clearly Muggle built and maybe fifty years old at most. It’s nothing at all like the grand five _hundred_ year old manors Draco is accustomed to. 

The house is tiny in comparison; every part of it feels narrow from the living room to the staircase. It barely fits two bedrooms, and has only a single bath. The walls are all painted flat colours, mostly beiges and yellows. The trim around them is a simple off-white. The doors are all plain identical things, with basic round knobs. There’s no wainscoting, no friezes, no decorative relief, no hearth with an intricately carved mantle depicting wizarding history. 

It’s utterly depressing.

Draco has spent his fair share of time in hovels on the job, but more often than not his assignments have him spying on wizards from a similar background as himself, with similar amenities to his own home. The operation he had spent the last three years of his life in was one such, and Potter’s house is a stark change from that.

“Clean towels are here,” Potter says, cutting into Draco’s musings. He gestures at a slim door next to the bathroom.

Draco nods and then Potter is turning away and walking back downstairs without a word. For a brief moment he is not exactly sure what to do with himself. Is he expected to follow Potter? Should he settle into his room?

Based on Potter’s negligent attitude, Draco decides to do what sounds most appealing to him and take a shower. He gets a towel from the slender linen closet and locks himself in the bathroom.

The space is much smaller than Draco is accustomed to and he bangs his knee on a cupboard as he is undressing. When he is naked he regards himself in the mirror, finding all the new bruises on his body and trying to get a look at the cut on his head which he got dodging a powerful Diffindo that nearly took his head off.

He feels it out delicately; the blood has dried so it seems to have scabbed over. Even still, Draco would rather heal it now and not have to worry about it. He grabs his wand instinctually to do just that, then stops short of casting the spell when he remembers that he probably shouldn’t be using his wand right now—not if he wants his location to remain a secret. 

With a sigh, Draco sets his wand back down and then steps into the shower. He fiddles with the knobs until he gets the temperature just right, wishing that he could also adjust the weak pressure of the stream. The shower stall is small but at least it is clean.

Draco puts his hands against the cold tile and leans forward into the spray. He closes his eyes and basks in the sensation of the warm water saturating his hair, trickling down his brow, dripping off his nose and eyelashes, and running down his back. 

Draco is not sure how much sleep he got before Ron’s Patronus had startled him awake, but it couldn’t have been more than four hours, and since then he has spent every minute awake and on the alert. He’s absolutely knackered, his nerves are fried and a large part of him wants to curl up under the warm spray and fall asleep.

Draco unselfconsciously uses Potter’s soap and shampoo, which seem adequate and thankfully don’t irritate his sensitive skin. The soap smells of honey and beeswax, the shampoo is less definable as something clean and vaguely masculine, and both are subtle scents.

Only once the water starts to run cold does Draco leave the comforting respite of the shower, cramped and unfamiliar as it may be, and step out to towel himself off. He digs out a spare set of robes he keeps in his emergency kit and throws them on, then leaves the humid warmth of the bathroom to get settled into his room. 

The guest bedroom somehow manages to be even more bland than the rest of the house with its beige walls, boring white curtains and a rudimentary set of white bedding. Apart from one lovely heartleaf philodendron, hanging to the side of the window and draping all the way to the floor, there’s been no effort to decorate the space—no pictures, no paintings, no knick-knacks. It’s certainly not the kind of living space Draco is accustomed to, but it will do for a few days. 

He finds hangers in the empty closet and hangs up his robes. He’ll have to remember to ask Potter later how he can wash them without magic, or perhaps Potter would be willing to wash them when he does his own laundry. They will need special attention to get the blood out of the collar.

Once that’s done, Draco is as settled in as he can be. He is wearing the only other clothes he has, and his emergency kit will stay packed and on him at all times from now on. 

Draco sits on the edge of his bed and wonders if he should try for a nap. He is exhausted but not sure if he would be able to slow his thoughts down or relax his nerves enough to fall asleep. 

He chews his lip and furrows his brow as he looks around the room. It’s always such a strange sensation to be in someone else’s home but this feels especially surreal.

He is sitting in Harry Potter’s house, staying in his spare bedroom.

Harry Potter. _Harry. Potter._ Draco can’t quite wrap his head around it.

His stomach makes itself known in the form of a loud grumble and Draco glances down to it. He wonders what the chances for food are. None if he doesn’t do anything about it. 

Draco makes his way back down the narrow staircase, past the entryway and into the living room. He moves cautiously, looking about for Potter but not spotting him. He tries the garage door and finds him in there, tinkering with one of the motorbikes.

Potter looks over when Draco steps out into the garage, stopping his work to watch Draco. He doesn’t say anything, and Draco finds it rather disconcerting to be stared at in silence by Harry Potter. Naturally, his reaction is snark. 

Draco puts a hand on his hip and raises an eyebrow. “Is there any food?” he asks, his tone coming out more entitled than he intends.

Other than an eyebrow twitch, Potter seems unmoved by this show. “There’s food in the kitchen. Help yourself.” And with that he turns his back to Draco and resumes whatever it is he was doing before.

Draco huffs irritably, but he goes inside to the kitchen and looks around it. There are hints of untidiness, a few dishes in the sink, a pan left on the stove, but overall the space seems rather neat. 

Draco is unsure whether Potter lives alone or has a partner. If he does have a partner there is no sign of them, and if he is a bachelor then he is a surprisingly tidy one, especially considering the wild state of his appearance.

After some searching, Draco finds a loaf of bread and puts two slices in the toaster. He doesn’t feel comfortable enough to try and cook anything more complicated than that, and at least he understands how to use the toaster from seeing Ron and Hermione do it at their house. 

Draco is feeling good about this simple choice until the toast pops and comes out far too dark, almost black. Draco makes a face of disgust, wondering if he’s managed to muck it up somehow or if Potter intentionally set his toaster like this. Who wants to eat burnt toast? It’s supposed to be gold, not charcoal, Draco thinks disdainfully.

He finds the butter dish and slathers it on so he can force the toast down, not at all satisfied, but at least it’s something in his stomach. 

After the toast is gone and he has washed the crumbs from his hands, Draco looks around and wonders, now what?

◊ ◊ ◊

Draco figures out how to get the telly turned on, knowing a bit about the remote from using Ron and Hermione’s. He ends up watching TV to pass the time, but he can’t stop his mind from wandering back to the raid he just narrowly escaped. 

Draco remembers being asleep in a large, four-poster bed with another man, Roberts. He remembers being woken up abruptly from Ron’s Jack Russell telling him that Damian’s men are coming to raid the place. The dog tells him in Ron’s voice to get ready, and that Ron is coming to extract him. 

_Draco jumps out of bed and grabs his wand._

_Roberts had woken up from Ron’s Patronus, and he is looking at Draco in confusion, and he asks Draco what the hell is going on._

_Draco looks to the man, whose expression is turning more suspicious with every passing second. Draco stuns him._

_He leaves the bedroom, looking one way down the hall when a hex flies past him from the other direction. It clips the side of his head with sharp, cutting pain. Draco whips around and drops low, sending a hex back to a man he recognises by his robes as one of Damian’s men._

_The wizard blocks Draco’s spell with a furious determination in his expression. Draco tries to yell at him that he’s an informant working with the Aurors, but the wizard ignores him and casts a Confringo that explodes over Draco’s shield._

_Thinking fast, Draco sends a Reducto at the chandelier above the wizard’s head. He tries to jump out of the way but it catches his leg and sends him sprawling. Draco stuns him and steps around his body._

_If Damian’s men are casting first and asking questions later, then that isn’t good for Draco. He can’t get caught in this raid and locked up with the men he’s been spying on, not now when Roberts knows him for a traitor. Right now Draco needs to escape; Ron can explain his presence afterward._

_The sounds of shouting and explosions echo through the manor and Draco carefully makes his way down the hall, toward the back staircase. He fights several of Damian’s men as he makes his way through the manor, hexing everyone he comes across including the Dark wizards he’s been working with._

_When he turns a corner, he comes face-to-face with another Dark wizard, and the man’s face twists in fury when he sees Draco, like he knows Draco for what he is now. Draco barely dodges the Cruciatus aimed at him by jumping back around the corner._

_A Bombarda erupts over his chest and sends him crashing into the wall behind him. It knocks the air from his lungs and stuns him for a second, and he looks up to see one of the Huntsmen bearing down on him from the other end of the hall._

_The wizard has his wand raised, and just as he’s casting an Expulso Curse, Ron jumps in front of Draco and blocks it, sending it back at the wizard and shielding them from the explosion. After confirming the Huntsman is knocked out, Ron turns and offers a hand to Draco._

_Draco takes it and pulls himself to standing with a groan. He wipes the trail of blood from his mouth, wraps an arm around his bruised chest and nods when Ron asks if he’s alright._

_Ron tells him they need to get him out of here, and Draco leads them out onto the manor grounds. They need to get outside the Anti-Apparition Jinx before they can leave._

_Three of Damian’s men jump into battle with them when they spot Ron and Draco fleeing through the courtyard. They both take up duelling stances, shielding and countering the curses thrown at them from three different angles as best as they can._

_While Draco shields, Ron counters, and when Ron shields, Draco throws offensive spells. They work together as a well-oiled machine and take the wizards out one by one._

A hand on Draco’s shoulder startles him and, before his mind is even fully awake, Draco is out of the armchair and on his feet, wand held up, ready for another attack.

For a split second his brain is completely confused by the image of Harry Potter standing in front of him, calm as can be with a wand pointed at his heart, and then he remembers where he is. 

Ron has dumped him at Potter’s place. 

Draco puts down his wand, pursing his lips and noting how the lighting has changed in the living room. There is no more direct sunlight through the curtains, so he must have accidentally dozed off. 

Potter has changed out of the work suit and his hands are clean. He is wearing a long sleeved blue Henley that has the top two buttons undone. The shirt stretches across his shoulders and chest then tapers down to hang looser around his waist, accentuating his physique in a casual way. It makes him look positively edible. 

“There’s food in the kitchen, if you want any,” Potter tells him. He is holding a plate of it, a pasta with grape tomatoes and basil leaves with a salad. At first Draco thinks it’s meant for him, but then Potter sits in the other armchair and starts eating it.

That’s perfectly fine, Draco thinks. He is capable of serving himself after all, and he wouldn’t expect Potter to have a house elf. 

Draco goes to the kitchen to investigate. He dishes up food for himself and then, following Potter’s lead, eats it with him in the living room. Potter doesn’t have a dining table, which Draco finds strange. Though really, there’s not room for one in his small house.

In the time he was gone, Potter has changed the channel to some other show, a drama of some sort. Much of the plot doesn’t make sense, but at least it fills the silence between them. 

Potter finishes before him and disappears into the kitchen for a little while. When he comes back he stops in front of Draco, looks at him coolly, and says, “Put the dishes in the washer when you’re finished. I’m going to bed, knock if you need anything.”

Draco nods and Potter goes upstairs. He furrows his brow and chews a bite of the pasta slowly, wondering at the weird situation he has found himself in. Not only is it surreal to be in the presence of Harry Potter, a veritable ghost that no one has seen for nearly two decades, but Draco finds Potter’s behaviour to be quite strange as well. 

He’s almost like an Inferius—devoid of life. His tone is even, his expression is neutral. They’ve not had much interaction yet, but it still seems odd. He’s nothing at all like the fierce, powerful wizard of Draco’s memory. That Potter would have thrown him out on his arse, rather than invite him in with cool indifference. 

Draco shivers and tries not to think too hard about the other man in the house. He tries not to think about how he was charged for murdering a suspect and abusing illegal potions all those years back. Which of course means that Draco thinks of nothing else.

Perhaps the potions addled his mind. Draco has seen it before, witches and wizards looking as if they’ve been hollowed out by their addictions. Except Potter’s case seems to be the opposite, he looks rather good for his age, quite lush, if Draco’s being honest. It’s his personality that’s been hollowed out instead. 

Perhaps Draco shouldn’t judge too quickly. It’s barely been a day, and maybe Potter is being more taciturn than normal because he doesn’t like Draco and how the situation was thrust upon him. Or maybe he’s holding his feelings back for Draco’s benefit, so they won’t fight. Or, or, or... 

Draco turns down the volume and curls up in the armchair, feeling out of place and strangely alone. He discovers that it’s only nine o’clock and he spends a few more hours watching telly before he decides to try and get some sleep. 

Inside the guest bedroom he pauses, then locks the door behind him. He would like to think that Potter wouldn’t come into his room unannounced, but Draco doesn’t really know this Potter at all. 

Draco tosses and turns for much of the night.

◊ ◊ ◊

The next morning, Draco is anxious to hear from Ron. He didn’t get the best sleep, partly due to his nap the previous afternoon, but mostly because he always has a hard time sleeping in an unfamiliar environment. The house makes all sorts of sounds Draco isn’t used to, and he couldn’t stop worrying and wondering about Potter, on top of replaying the events of the raid over and over in his mind.

Draco wants this strange little foray into Potter’s sad life to be over as quickly as possible. He also wants to know that he can return home to his own Manor without any of those Huntsmen, overzealous little upstarts that they are, blowing down his door and arresting him for any imagined misdeeds. 

The fact that they didn’t even try to arrest Draco and instead immediately cast potentially lethal curses at him shows how rabid and incompetent they are. And not just at Draco either, they flat-out attacked Ron as well. Draco can’t wait to see them on trial for the crap they pulled yesterday. He’ll be only too happy to see them disbanded and locked up. 

Draco had hated Damian from the beginning, hated how after trying Potter, Damian Perriss became a household name, and everyone was talking about how Damian was going to clean up their society. 

His campaign has often sounded far too similar to the rhetoric Draco had heard in his own home as a boy, only this time from the opposite spectrum with pro-Muggle, anti-traditionalism beliefs. 

Early on Draco had recognised Damian’s formation of this new anti-Dark Arts squad as a bad job. Trying to counter one extreme with the other does nothing but harm. He has learned that well enough over the years.

Now they’ve gone and mucked up an Auror-sanctioned, three-year sting operation. Surely now they’ll face some punishment for their rash actions and extremism.

Draco attends to his morning routine as best he can in a strange home without his regular supply. He washes in the shower with Potter’s things and spends thirty minutes in front of the mirror agonising over the state of his hair and skin. He can’t dry his hair like he normally would with a spell, and he has none of his lavish skin creams to keep it moist or ward off wrinkles. He knows that as soon as he steps out of the humid bathroom his skin will dry horribly. 

He finds shaving items in the cabinet and uses them, refusing to let his stubble get out of control. Afterward his skin isn’t as closely shaved as he likes, and he has nicked himself in three places, unaccustomed as he is to shaving without a charm. 

With a resigned sigh, Draco turns away from his reflection and dresses in the same simple set of backup robes he had worn yesterday. He’s not entirely happy about it, but they are somewhat cleaner than the bloodstained ones. At least he put three pairs of spare underwear, undershirts, and socks into his emergency kit, so he is wearing something clean underneath. 

Draco puts his forearm holster on under his sleeve and tucks his wand into it, feeling safer for having it on hand even if he knows better than to use it. 

When he goes downstairs, the house is eerily empty. The silence mixed with the strangeness of being in an unfamiliar house makes Draco want to crawl out of his skin. He’s never been able to handle silence or solitude very well. 

As he moves around the kitchen, Draco hums under his breath and makes himself more toast, this time carefully reading the dial on the toaster and turning it down first. He spots a kettle and flips it on, then searches the cupboards for tea. 

Draco is not completely unfamiliar with some Muggle instruments, as he has seen things like the toaster and the kettle being used at Ron and Hermione’s home. He’s never used them before coming to Potter’s house and his confidence in them is shaky at best, but he manages alright. 

After another dry breakfast, made only slightly better by a cup of tea, Draco decides to seek out Potter and finds him in the garage. He’s in the stained blue work suit again, tinkering with a motorbike. He seems distracted enough to not have noticed Draco. 

Draco hesitates, then closes the door carefully and goes back into the house. His heart has already started to speed up at the thought of what he’s just decided to do, but it doesn’t seem too dangerous a thing. Potter seems well distracted and Draco is curious.

He cautiously makes his way back upstairs and to Potter’s bedroom at the end of the hall. Draco takes a calming breath and opens the door slowly, not sure what to expect, but being cautious as ever. 

A loud whistling noise erupts from the room and Draco sees movement on the far side of it. He startles, and his wand is in hand, raised and ready for action. 

As the door slowly swings further open and the moment drags on, nothing happens. 

Draco’s heart is up in his throat, pounding rapidly. The whistling continues, but the space appears empty. Across the room is a mirror with shadows wavering over its surface, and Draco recognizes it as a Foe Glass and the movement which had startled him. The whistling then also becomes apparent as what must be a Sneakoscope. 

Draco takes a breath and tucks his wand back into its holster. He glances around the room a last time then turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. With his departure the alarm stops. 

From what he had seen there is nothing special about Potter’s room. There are a few houseplants, a bookshelf, a large bed with turquoise bedding and soft yellow walls. It seems much like the rest of the house, except apparently it’s armed with Dark Detectors, which makes Draco’s snooping much more difficult. 

The Dark Detectors are the only wizarding items Draco has seen since being here, which Draco finds strange. He wonders at who Potter could even have as enemies these days; he’s been living outside the Wizarding World for an age. Still, hatred runs deep, Draco knows this well enough. 

He muses that his own enemies might now be considered Potter’s enemies by the Foe-Glass since Potter is harbouring him. Whoever they might be, Draco is glad to see that they are merely distant shadows in the mirror. 

Draco wonders if the Dark Detectors are a sign that Potter’s life might not be as droll as he had first thought. 

◊ ◊ ◊

Potter finds him a few hours later lazing in an armchair watching telly. Draco had been a little too embarrassed to seek out Potter after having the whistle blown on him while trying to snoop around Potter’s things. 

They make eye contact, say nothing, and the moment seems to last a second too long before Potter looks away and sits in the other armchair. Draco can’t tell if Potter is aware of his snooping, but if he is he doesn’t seem to care. 

Potter sets a plate on his lap, picks up the sandwich on it with one hand and his other he holds out to Draco expectantly, seemingly for the remote. 

Draco purses his lips, not liking the expression of entitlement even though it is completely valid since this is, after all, Potter’s home and Potter’s television and Draco doesn’t actually know enough about Muggle shows to feel too attached to what he’s watching. 

Draco is an adult now, and there’s no reason to get irritated over something so little or try to keep it from Potter just to annoy him. He places the remote in Potter’s hand and Potter switches it to a different channel. 

After an awkward moment of not a single word exchanged between them and Draco feeling hungry and annoyed that Potter only brought one sandwich, he asks, “Could I trouble you for one of those?”

Potter looks over at him, chewing slowly and then swallowing. 

“Yeah,” he says, looking back to the telly. “Ingredients are in the kitchen.”

Draco’s eye twitches at that. “I suppose I’m expected to make all my own meals here, then?”

That gets Potter to look back up at him. “Sorry. I assumed you were an adult, capable of making a sandwich,” he says, and though his expression is still clear, his tone and words are exactly that of the old sarcastic little prick Draco knew him to be.

The instant flash of relief and satisfaction that sweeps through Draco’s entire being is unexpected, but not at all unwelcome, from finally getting a reaction other than disinterest from him. Gods, it feels just like when he would get under Potter’s skin back at school, and Draco wants more.

“And I assumed it was polite manners to serve your guest food at mealtimes.”

“Are you a guest?” Potter asks, his eyes flashing briefly with that old wit. “I thought you were a fugitive.”

“A fugitive you are housing,” Draco shoots back. “Are you not my acting guardian?”

The edges of Potter’s mouth tighten and pull down minutely, but Draco sees it. He has to look carefully to find anything in Potter’s flat expressions. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Potter says blandly. 

Draco releases a short huff from his nose and crosses one leg over the other. He glances away from Potter as he debates his answer. He taps his fingers against the arm of his chair, then decides to run with what he’s thinking. 

“I didn’t, actually,” he says and looks back at Potter, narrowing his eyes and watching his expression carefully as he continues, “Not when I’m trapped in the house of a powerful, unstable murderer and abuser of illicit potions, all while fearing that at any moment Damian’s Dogs might pop in unannounced for some tea and torture.”

Draco didn’t think it was possible, but as soon as the word ‘murderer’ had been spoken, Potters expression shut down further, and now he is simply studying Draco in an eerie silence that drags on. 

As ever, Draco refuses to back down. He said what he said, and he meant it to rile Potter up, so he holds his gaze, hoping to see something of that old fire that once blazed brightly behind those too-green eyes. 

Potter taps his middle and pointer finger a few times against his knee. It’s the only outward sign of a reaction to Draco’s words, but even in that Draco feels some measure of satisfaction. 

“If they come there’ll be warning. No one can Apparate onto the property, there are wards,” Potter says, completely sidestepping the whole drug-addict murderer thing. 

“You’ve put up wards?” Draco hadn’t noticed, and he hadn’t thought to test for them, but it makes sense. 

“Of course,” Potter says dryly.

Draco frowns, wondering exactly which spells he’s used. “Am I truly trapped in here, then?”

Potter almost looks as if he wants to roll his eyes. He doesn’t, but his tone is a little more biting when he says, “This isn’t a prison. The wards keep enemies out, but you’re free to leave anytime if you feel unsafe. It’s your neck to risk.”

“You won’t stop me then? What if I get into trouble?” Draco asks, his concern about Potter’s attitude and his role in all this rising. 

“No. I’m not here to protect you or keep you, and if you leave I’m not coming after you. You’re only here because this is the last place anyone would come looking.” 

It’s obviously true, if Potter’s managed to elude all those that have sought him over the years. Still, it’s unsettling to hear how little Potter cares about Draco’s safety. Potter had _always_ cared. Even when he shouldn’t, even when it meant flying through a room full of Fiendfyre to save someone he loathed. 

Draco furrows his brow and chews on his lip as he studies the other man, surprised to find how much of a stranger is staring back at him. 

When Draco doesn’t respond, Potter returns his attention to his sandwich and the television. He only stays for as long as it takes to finish eating, and then he’s up and heading back out to the garage. 

Draco idly rubs the goosebumps on his arm, mulling over what he knows about Potter and trying to figure out if he’s sincerely as detached as he seems. 

Ron’s words drift back into his mind, and Draco wonders again, but from now a somewhat different perspective, what exactly he meant when he told Potter not to get too attached.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Draco wakes from a light and restless sleep to the sound of voices. He sits up and tries to focus on them, hoping it’s Ron come to tell him it’s safe to go home. 

The sound is coming from downstairs, but while one of the voices is distinctly Potter’s, the other sounds higher and feminine, definitely not Ron. 

Draco puts on his robes and gets up to investigate. He pauses on the stairs to listen in better and then recognises Hermione’s voice. He finds her in the kitchen with Potter, red-eyed and angry-looking. 

The two of them stop and look at Draco when he enters the kitchen. Hermione takes a deep, shaky breath, and Draco furrows his brows. This can’t be a good sign.

“What’s happened?” Draco asks. 

“They’ve taken him,” Hermione says, brows furrowed and mouth pinched in anger. “They put Ron in jail.”

Draco stomach drops, and he sucks in a surprised breath. “In Azkaban?” 

“No.” Hermione shakes her head shortly. “They have him in a holding cell for now.”

Draco rubs his eyes with one hand and then pinches the bridge of his nose. This isn’t good, he thinks. No, this is as bad as it can be. If they think they have the legal rights to lock up the bloody Head Auror then Draco is utterly fucked. 

“That is absurd,” Draco mutters.

“Of course it’s absurd! The entirety of Damian’s platform is absurd! And yet he keeps getting exactly what he wants, and what he wants right now is to depose Ron and lock him in Azkaban for the rest of his life!” Hermione’s voice nearly breaks, her whole body an expression of fury. 

Potter seems still and calm in comparison, though Draco notes his tight expression. 

“What can be done?” Potter asks. 

“I don’t know, I’m working with Shacklebolt and Copper on his case. We have the Auror’s testimony about your operation, but your file’s gone missing. Damian’s men are claiming Ron was there working with you and the rest of the Dark wizards they arrested. They’re saying Ron attacked them and helped you flee justice.” 

“What utter horseshit,” Draco mutters, biting down on his thumbnail and looking away from her as he runs through options in his head. Draco has been scared for a long time of the direction the Ministry has been heading with this new anti-Dark Arts, anti-traditionalist, anti-Pureblood party that’s cropped up in the last couple decades, spearheaded by Damian. 

It’s not just Draco though, many of the more rational witches and wizards have been scared by it. Those who remember and recognise the signs have been worried for years about the direction things could turn and have stood against Damian, trying to restrict the powers of the Huntsmen. The last thing they need is a group of self-righteous, curse-happy, vigilante extremists who are not held to the same legal restrictions and standards placed on the DMLE. 

If they think they can lock up the Head Auror, one of their strongest opponents, then it can’t mean anything good. Draco sees how this could be a big turning point in the Ministry, this could be another opportunity Damian will use to build his platform for Minister, just as he built his platform for his appointment on the Wizengamot on his trial of Potter all those years ago. 

When Draco looks back at Hermione, in place of the anger he sees weariness and worry etched across her face. 

Draco releases a sigh and reaches for her, she moves in and they embrace briefly. “I’m so sorry,” Draco says into her curls. 

“No, don’t be,” Hermione says and pulls away. “We knew something had to break, eventually. Now we just need to make sure we can get Ron out of this. We—the law is on our side,” she ends firmly.

“I could come back, give my testimony of what happened,” Draco offers, but Hermione shakes her head and they both already know that can’t happen.

“No, there’s no sense in getting you locked up too. Damian’s on the warpath and he’s already got two thirds of the Wizengamot in his pocket. Ron we can defend, but you wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Not with your file missing and Ron already under suspicion. Not enough people know about your undercover work to testify for you,” she reasons.

She’s right of course, and Draco already knew it to be true, but he had to offer. 

Hermione takes in a shaky breath, and then says, “He’s petitioning to bring the Dementors back to Azkaban. They want to reinstate the Kiss.”

“Wh—when did that happen?” Draco stutters out, barely above a whisper. All the blood seems drained of his body. Such a thought is bone-chilling.

“A couple months ago, it’ll be a while yet before they vote on it, but Damian is pushing hard for it. Did Ron not mention? I know you’re not always up on Ministry business when you’re on a job,” Hermione says, and Draco shakes his head.

They stare at each other in a moment of horrified solidarity. 

Draco puts a hand over his mouth, glancing away and rubbing over his lips in thought. This is bad, if Damian thinks he has the power to make such a move then things are worse than Draco thought. _Everyone_ agreed after the war that removing the Dementors from Azkaban was for the best.

“But how…” Draco throws his hands up in frustrated confusion. “How does that even make any sense? If he’s supposed to be championing the erasure of all Dark Arts from our society? Dementors are one of the darkest creatures out there.”

“I know,” she says with a tired sigh, like she’s already spent hours arguing the same point.

Draco deflates at this, letting his hands fall.

“Oh,” Hermione says, a look of realisation crossing her face. “Ron told me to tell you. When they took him in, Damian’s men went through his office, his files. They know about the tracker.”

Draco curses internally, and then decides to curse out loud as well. “Goddamnit.” He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Okay. At least I know for sure now.”

Hermione gives him a sympathetic look but offers no further assistance on the matter. They stand in silence, dark thoughts hanging heavily in the air.

Potter reaches out and puts a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Do you want anything to eat?” It breaks them out of the melancholic moment. 

She gives him a weak smile and shakes her head. “No, thank you. I need to get back. I need to—there’s too much to do, and I don’t want anyone to start wondering where I’ve run off to while my husband is in jail.”

Potter nods, and Hermione pulls him into a tight hug. 

After they’ve said their goodbyes and watched Hermione leave, Draco turns to Potter. “So, you’ll offer to make her food but not me?”

Potter actually rolls his eyes and Draco is preening on the inside, having to fight down a grin at finally getting clear, outward sign that Potter still has emotions. 

The good mood evaporates quickly though, as the weight of the situation settles over them. 

With a sigh, Draco rubs his eyes then turns and starts pacing the kitchen as he thinks through this situation he’s found himself in. 

He runs through several scenarios in his mind but ultimately the safest one, the one that keeps him alive and out of prison, is the one where he stays here with Potter. He can’t use any of the safehouses he used before because they were Auror-run, and if Draco’s file has gone missing and they don’t believe Ron, then there really is no one else who can prove Draco’s innocence. 

Not to mention that Draco knows for sure now that he can’t do any magic without exposing his location. Just the thought of having to face off against Damian’s men again makes his ribs ache from the bruises still painting his body.

An image of Damian’s man attacking him slips into Draco’s mind—all the hate and determination that had been in his eyes as he threw lethal spells at Draco. 

Draco idly fingers his wand under the hem of his sleeve. He feels exposed and hobbled without his magic. How can he be expected to survive without it? It unnerves him. It makes him feel vulnerable in a way he hasn’t felt in years, not since the war when Potter stole his wand and left him defenceless in a mansion filled with the most dangerous, bloodthirsty sort. 

Except this situation he finds himself in is rather different. Through years of undercover work Draco has become accustomed to living and moving and working around criminals and Dark Arts practitioners. Now he’s living with a very different sort of person—Harry Potter. Once the beacon for all that was good in the world, now a fallen hero who seems not to care at all for the world he once saved. Powerful and enigmatic Potter. 

Draco steals a glance at the subject of his thoughts, standing still and silent, eyes tracking Draco as he paces around the kitchen. A shiver threatens to travel up his spine at the sight of the man watching him and Draco suppresses it. 

If anything, Draco feels even less at ease around Potter than the violent and immoral villains he had spent the last three years living with. At least then he knew what to expect, but this new Potter he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what his agenda is or what his principles are any more.

Draco shakes his head of such thoughts and refocuses. It’s no use worrying over what Potter’s intentions are, he doesn’t seem to have any. Instead, Draco tries to think of what other options he has for surviving his current situation. 

Draco doesn’t really have any other connection outside Ron and Hermione, none which he could hide with safely anyway. He has enough sense of mind to admit that he’s not nearly familiar enough with the Muggle world to be able to navigate it without help, and ultimately Potter is the safest person he could be with right now. 

Regardless of whether Potter’s turned batty or what he said about not being here to protect Draco, if wizards come looking for him he wants Potter on his side. Changed as he may be, Draco thinks Potter would assist him if he were attacked. 

He stops pacing and runs a hand through his hair. “Goddamnit,” Draco curses his lack of options, then looks up to find Potter still watching him. Potter is leaning his hip against the counter, those large arms folded over his chest, accentuating the bulge of his biceps and shoulders and framing those pecs nicely.

Not the right time, Draco. And certainly not the right man. He mentally waves away such distracting thoughts and says, “Well, I may need to stay a bit longer than we originally thought.”

Potter nods slowly. “Stay as long as you need.”

One side of Draco’s mouth ticks up in a small smirk. “Are you sure? I doubt you’ll feel the same after a week.”

Potter face and tone is annoyingly flat again as he says, “It doesn’t matter.” 

Draco is a little struck by the words. What exactly does he mean it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters, but Potter has already turned and is going out into his garage before Draco can respond. 

Draco purses his lips and then strides after him in annoyance, following him into the garage. 

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter? What? You don’t think you have a choice in this? You don’t _have_ to shelter me. Come on then, tell us how you really feel,” Draco taunts him. 

Potter sighs and turns to Draco. “I mean that it’s fine.”

“And if it isn’t?” Draco presses, putting his hands on his hips. 

“I just said that it is.” 

“Well, thank you for that shining endorsement.” Draco throws his hands up irritably. 

“What then, Malfoy?” Potter asks. “Do you want me to kick you out?”

Draco drops his hands, watching Potter and shaking his head. Of course he doesn’t, but it would be nice to see any strong emotion from Potter, a man who had once burned so hot he could have been made of dragon fire. “Yeah. Maybe,” Draco says petulantly.

Potter’s lips thin and he releases a slow sigh through his nose, then he points out to the open garage doors. “There’s the street. Feel free to leave anytime. It makes no difference to me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Draco dismisses him and his apathetic bullshit. 

The side of Potter’s mouth ticks up in the hint of a smile, there and gone again with barely enough time to notice. He turns his back to Draco and goes to look through the tools on his workbench. 

Feeling somewhat confused but also satisfied at getting Potter to almost-smile, Draco turns on his heel and stomps back into the house, slamming the door behind him for dramatic effect.

◊ ◊ ◊

On the next morning when Draco finds himself facing another day of crushing, inescapable boredom, he decides to seek out Potter and pester him. He finds him crouched next to one of the bikes in the garage, of course—the same place he’s spent the last three days in, seemingly doing the exact same thing.

“Do you do nothing but play with these—these Muggle motor vehicles?” Draco asks incredulously, gesturing around at the items in question. 

“Motorbikes,” Potter corrects him without looking up from his work.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Is this really all you do every single day? You’ve been at it for three days now.”

Potter looks up and blinks at Draco. “It’s Wednesday,” he says blankly, as if that’s supposed to be some sort of explanation. 

Draco scrunches his face in confused frustration. “Yes, and yesterday was Tuesday.”

Potter nods.

Draco scoffs and throws up his hands in frustrated confusion. 

“It’s called a job, Malfoy,” Potter explains dryly. “You see, most people have to work during the week to afford food and shelter and basic amenities.”

Draco turns his head away to hide his smirk at Potter’s sarcasm and then feigns offense. “I _know_ what a job is, Potter. If you hadn’t noticed I’m hiding in your house right now because I was working at my job—you know with the Aurors?—and my cover was blown.”

Potter opens his mouth as if to respond, but he stops himself and shuts it. 

“What? No thoughts?” Draco needles him. 

Potter doesn’t respond, however. Draco finds it to be rather infuriating. He switches tactics.

“Speaking of,” he says, “my robes were bloodied in the escape. I’ve only got this as spare and I’m not crazy about having had to wear it again and again these past few days. Is there a way I can have my robes cleaned here?”

Potter huffs and glances over to Draco. “A Scourgify?” Again with that wonderfully sarcastic tone. He stands and moves to the side of the garage, rifling through a set of red drawers there. 

Draco releases an exasperated sigh. “Did Ron not tell you? I can’t use magic at the moment.” 

Potter looks over at him, a bit of a question showing through his eyes in an otherwise blank expression. His eyes flick down to Draco’s left wrist, like he’s aware of the wand hidden there. 

“There’s a tracker on it,” Draco explains, which has Potter turning to face Draco directly. “Unless we want Damian’s Dogs knocking on your door I don’t think a Scourgify is the best way for me to clean a stain at the moment.”

Potter’s gaze flicks up to Draco’s, then falls back down to his wrist and the hidden wand. His gaze narrows intensely and there’s suddenly a charged feeling in the air. Draco could swear Potter looks as if he is about to jump Draco for his wand. 

“It’s from Ron—the Aurors,” he explains hesitantly. “For, you know, when things go South. When I’m on a job. So Ron can find me.” He slowly shifts his body to turn his wand arm away from Potter. He may not be able to use his wand currently but that doesn’t mean he is okay with Potter snatching it away. 

Right as his body tenses in preparation for Potter’s charge, Potter drops his intense gaze and turns away. He seems to find the tool he’s been looking for and returns to working on the motorbike.

Draco releases a slow, quiet breath and tries to relax his body, but the strange interaction has set his heart racing, pushing a cold shot of adrenaline through his veins. 

He remembers then that he is living with a dangerous man. A man which he feels in this moment that perhaps he should not provoke. Though Draco didn’t provoke him here, he simply mentioned the tracker. It’s not as if he _wants_ the damn thing on his wand. It’s out of his control.

After a deep breath, Draco swallows and presses on, deciding to pretend as if that moment hadn’t just happened. “So I can’t, or rather, I shouldn’t use my wand right now. And I need to know if there’s some way to wash my things in the meantime.”

“Yeah. You can use the washer and dryer,” Potter says, not bothering to look up from his work. 

Draco furrows his brow, wondering what on Earth that could be. Some Muggle invention, surely. He grits his teeth, hating to have to ask for help. If he had the use of his bloody wand he wouldn’t need any of this ridiculous Muggle tripe. “And what exactly—?”

Potter huffs out a sigh, his hand pausing in its motions of working on the motorbike. “Just—just let me finish this and I’ll show you.

Draco nods and leaves the garage, giving them both a bit of space in the meantime and feeling some measure of relief at the distance. 

It turns out that Potter doesn’t only show him how to use the odd machines Muggles wash their clothes in, he also lends Draco a set of horrendous clothes to wear—a soft purple t-shirt and a pair of what he calls ‘joggers’. Draco feels they do nothing for his figure, but he wears them while he waits for his clothes to finish washing.

Before stuffing Draco’s nice robes into the large metal box, Potter waves a hand at the bloodstain and Draco watches as it disappears with, what he assumes is, a wandless, nonverbal Scourgify. He tries not to look too impressed. 

As he watches Potter turn and walk away, Draco realises what a hole he is digging himself into. Why has he been going out of his way to bother Potter? Not only is it potentially dangerous, it’s also pointless. 

Finding a secret to pick and scratch at until he gets to the truth is something Draco has never been able to stop himself from doing. It’s something that has made him well suited to his job, but also has the potential for obsession and damaged relationships. Draco knows this well enough. 

Even with Ron in jail, this solution to Draco’s problem is merely temporary. Draco will not stay here long, and Potter is not someone he cares to get involved with in any way. There is no reason to poke and prod at him, no reason to figure out why he’s so hollow and try to get the real Potter to make an appearance. 

Draco has already read the biography, there is nothing more of interest to uncover here. 

Draco is going to drop this. He is going to let Hermione do her Hermione thing to get Ron off, then he is going to let Ron do his Head Auror thing and bring Draco in from the cold, and then Potter will be a distant memory.

In the meantime, Draco is going to play nice.

◊ ◊ ◊

Draco is done playing nice.

He is bored out of his fucking mind. It’s only been three more days, but Draco has tried to keep away from Potter and be polite when their paths cross. Honest, he has.

He’s read more books this week than he has in the past year, and he even has a favourite television show now called Judge Judy—Draco appreciates her sharp wit and no-nonsense style—but it’s not enough. 

Hermione hasn’t come back and there is no word on Ron’s status, not that such a thing can be solved in a mere couple of days, but Draco is desperate for some sort of human interaction. Human interaction which he isn’t getting from the wizard he’s living with, who has clearly had his brains sucked out by a Swooping Evil. 

Draco came into this with every intention of playing nice for a few days. He did, honest. But he can’t fucking stand it anymore. He can’t stand existing with this non-entity that never laughs and never glares and never raises his voice.

It’s like Potter has been hollowed out and there is nothing but a shell of the man that was there before. Draco hates it. He loathes it. He finds it to be even more infuriating than every injustice he had felt at Potter’s hands in school.

Draco may have hated Potter before, but at least then there was something _to_ hate. Something that would respond when poked. It’s not just infuriating, it’s also highly disconcerting to taunt Potter and get almost no reaction whatsoever. 

Potter has always been an intense person, achieving whatever he set his mind to, regardless of whoever tried to thwart him, Draco and Dark Lords alike. It seems that now he has managed to achieve becoming the most intensely boring person Draco has ever met, and it’s driving Draco spare. 

Draco doesn’t _want_ to care but seeing him like this makes him want to grab Potter by the shoulders and shake him until he sees something of the boy he used to know. 

He is decided. If there is only one more thing he can accomplish in his life, he is going to relight the fire that’s been extinguished in Harry Potter. Because let’s face it, when it comes to Potter, Draco has never had much self-control. 

So Draco stops avoiding Potter, and he starts looking for ways to annoy him. He starts small—he is still a little intimidated by the man and doesn’t necessarily want to provoke Potter into attacking him. 

It starts with taking over Potter’s chair. He had originally avoided it because he noticed how much more lived in Potter’s chair seemed to be. He noticed how the upholstery seemed more worn, how the lamp and the remote and other little items were all placed closer to it on the end table between the armchairs, and how that side of the table had more water rings. 

When Potter first comes in with his lunch to see Draco in his chair he stops in his tracks. Draco looks up at him, all innocence, and waits. 

After a second of hesitation Potter moves forward and sits in the other chair without a word. When he holds out his hand for the remote, Draco doesn’t give it to him.

“I want to see this,” Draco says in a polite tone. 

They both look at each other—Draco with a small smile and big eyes, and Potter with narrowed eyes and a somewhat suspicious look. The edge of Draco’s lips lift a little higher at seeing his reaction. 

Potter breaks eye contact first, dropping his hand and stabbing at the chicken breast on his plate. 

It’s small, but it’s something—the first signs of life.

◊ ◊ ◊

After that first productive day of taking over Potter’s space and looking for buttons to push, Draco feels somewhat accomplished. He left dirty dishes in the sink, books on the end table and socks under the glass coffee table. He threw open the musty blue curtains and cracked all the windows, forcing light and fresh air into the space.

He got a few small reactions from Potter, mostly a lot of eyebrow action, but it wasn’t enough. Draco wants a little more. 

The next morning Draco seeks out Potter and finds him, of course, in his garage. Draco starts by wandering about the space, and neither of them acknowledge each other’s presence.

Draco walks past the bikes in the shop, running his fingers over their seats and handles. He walks along Potter’s workbench, which is strewn with tools and metal oddments and machinery Draco is unfamiliar with. He runs the tip of his pointer finger along the cold metal surface, then holds the finger up for inspection, noting the dirt gathered on it. 

With a small grimace, Draco turns toward Potter. Potter has halted in his work, watching Draco with that same look of faint suspicion. 

Draco quirks an eyebrow at him and makes a show of brushing the dirt from his finger. Potter gives a minute shake of his head, looking away from Draco and back to the bike in front of him. 

A small smirk creeps onto his face and Draco has to make an effort to push it down. He clears his throat. 

“So. Potter. I’m wondering—do you have a partner?” Draco asks carefully as he continues moving around the garage, scrutinising it. “Should I expect to see someone else come round? Or—?”

“No,” Potter answers shortly.

Draco accepts this answer with a short nod, ready to let the subject drop completely until Potter taps his wrench against his leg a couple times, then looks back up at Draco.

“You might see May about. Don’t mind her.”

“Oh. Is she...?” Draco pauses, and Potter fills in the blank.

“My assistant.”

“Muggle?” Draco finishes. 

Potter glances up at him, mouth tightening a little. “Yes.”

Draco nods and moves on, going to the far end of the garage where there is a small built in room mostly made of glass with an open doorway. It looks to be an office and Draco invites himself in. He looks around the space, at the calendar on the wall, at the mess of papers tacked to a cork board, and at the two extra chairs pushed up against the wall, presumably for customers. There are stacks of papers and manila folders placed in a sort of messily organised system on a desk. 

The clutter all seems business related, and there doesn’t appear to be any personal objects in the space. With a thoughtful hum, Draco drops into the chair behind the desk. He wonders if he might be able to find something more interesting in the desk and opens one of the drawers. 

A high-pitched whistling echoes loudly inside the small, glass and metal room and Draco starts. He quickly shuts the drawer and empties his mind of all thoughts of snooping, which stops the horrid noise. His heart is racing a mile a minute and he silently curses Potter’s obsession with Sneakoscopes. 

He glances out the glass windows and, judging by what Draco can see of Potter’s face over the motorbike he’s working on, there might be the hint of an amused smile there, though he’s not looking at Draco. 

Draco purses his lips, then closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He leans back in the desk chair and relaxes. He clears his mind, the way he has been so thoroughly trained to with Occlumency, and then looks down at his nails. He observes the bit of extra length they have grown since he’s been here, and thinks clearly of how nice it would be to have a nail file. He wonders if he might find a nail file in the desk somewhere that he could borrow then opens the drawer again. 

This time the Sneakoscope doesn’t go off, and Draco smirks lightly as he rifles through the drawer, pushing office supplies around as he concentrates on feeling for a nail file. 

“Ah!” Draco gasps quietly and jerks his hand back when he feels something sharp cut into the pad of his middle finger. He looks down at the cut as it turns red and a bead of blood forms. 

Draco sticks the finger in his mouth and then twists so he can carefully search the drawer with his other hand, feeling for the sharp object. When he finds it, he pulls it out and discovers that it’s a small, broken piece of a mirror. 

Draco huffs and returns the bit of rubbish to the drawer, and then goes on searching the rest of the desk diligently for a nail file. He doesn’t find one. He also doesn’t come across anything of interest. Other than Potter’s Dark Detectors, his office seems as boring as the rest of his life. 

When he leaves the office, Draco notices Potter glance over to him, then look back down to his work. Draco puts a hand on his hip and scans around the rest of the space. He looks over the gym equipment next to the office, barbells and a bench press and several other objects he doesn’t recognise. 

He moves his gaze further, around the corner of the office, and his gaze lands on what appears to be another motorbike, though this one has a cover thrown over it and is set apart from the line of motorbikes against the wall and the two on stands that Potter seems to be working on. 

Interest piqued, Draco moves to explore this new item, sequestered as it is. 

“If you tell me what you’re looking for I’m sure I could help you find it.” Potter’s voice stops Draco’s forward momentum and he pauses, one foot hanging in the air a second before he sets it down and looks across the garage at Potter. 

Potter is still crouched, but his forearms are propped on the seat of the bike and his posture is taller, more alert, his attention directed all at Draco. 

How interesting. This is the first real concern Potter has shown toward any of Draco’s probing—the first show of defensiveness. 

“No, thank you, I’m quite alright,” Draco says politely and continues on. He stops in front of the covered bike, eyes trailing the length of it, then glances back at Potter. 

Potter is still watching him closely. His fists are clenched, though he unclenches them once Draco looks at him. 

Draco tilts his head curiously, then reaches down, pinches a bit of the fabric, and slowly pulls it off the motorbike. He keeps his eyes locked on Potter’s all the while.

When he feels the cover slip completely off the bike, Draco turns his gaze to it. The bike is mostly black with silver accents. Based on the dullness of its metal pieces it looks old, like it hasn’t been ridden or cleaned in a while. Still, Draco can see a certain elegance in the slim, simple shape of it. 

He glanced over at Potter, whose head is now turned away from Draco and the bike. Draco can see a muscle jumping in his jaw and feels smug about it, resisting the urge to smirk.

“Such a beautiful thing, to be hidden away like this,” Draco comments lightly. He doesn’t have to speak loudly for his voice to travel across the space, even with the doors open and the sounds of birds and the wind filtering in. 

Draco watches Potter a moment, then looks back down to the motorbike, squinting at it in thought. 

“Ah. Was this your godfather’s motorbike? The flying one?” Draco asks after he makes the connection. 

When Draco checks again, Potter is looking at him intensely, a deep crease formed between his brows. 

Potter gets up and moves across the garage toward Draco. He’s not sure what Potter will do, but he mentally braces himself for it. 

However, when Potter gets there, all he does is glance at him, pull the cloth tarp from Draco’s hand, and throw it back over the bike.

“What would you know about that?” Potter asks in a quiet but gruff voice. 

“Plenty,” Draco drawls and turns to perch himself on the covered seat of the bike. Potter’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t stop Draco. “Skeeter wrote a book on you after you left, you know. An exposé of your life.” 

Potter huffs out a small sigh and glanced away from Draco. His expression shuts down, all signs of anger and irritation gone away, wiped clean like a chalkboard. 

“I know.” His tone is bland.

Draco raises an eyebrow at that. “You gave her permission?”

“No. Hermione told me. Wanted to sue her.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Draco asks. “She wrote some pretty damning things. I would have been furious.” 

“It didn’t matter,” he says emotionlessly.

Draco furrows his brow and tongues over his teeth in irritation. How could he care so little about having every dark skeleton dragged out of the closet and thrown to the ravenous mob of wizarding society, desperate to gobble up any scrap of filth written about their once-hero? 

He wants Potter to express at least _some_ measure of anger at the complete violation of his privacy, so he jabs at what he thinks might get such a response out of him.

“I wondered if the rumours of your childhood were true. She said you were abused by your Muggle family. That Dumbledore used your desire for a father figure to warp you, gave you special secret lessons, turned you into his soldier. She said it turned you mad.”

Potter looks at Draco blankly. “She’s not wrong,” he says slowly in that infuriatingly flat tone, lacking any inflection. 

Draco could _scream_. He wants to just grab Potter and shake him! But no. Draco looks away from those empty eyes, takes a slow breath, and calms himself down. Potter is clearly shut down. Pushing him further won’t do anything now. 

He stands and looks at Potter, and even with the all the evidence to the contrary, Draco can’t accept that. He tells Potter as much. 

“Somehow, I doubt that,” he says and then walks away, heading back into the house.

◊ ◊ ◊

Draco avoids Potter for the rest of the afternoon, feeling oddly shaken by their exchange.

Come dinner time, Draco is back to the game plan. When Potter starts cooking dinner, Draco insinuates himself into the process. He doesn’t offer any help, but he offers many suggestions and opinions on what sort of food should be cooked and how it should be prepared, and with his oversight he makes sure there is enough for him too.

Draco can handle the toaster and the kettle well enough, but the oven and the hob still seem too mysterious and dangerous for him to take a chance on cooking his own meals. 

Draco sits in Potter’s chair and they watch Draco’s show while they eat. Potter has nothing to say about it, so Draco fills the silence with his own chatter. He talks about the plot of the show, the characters, and opinions he has about Muggle TV and the actors. 

It’s not optimal, having such a taciturn companion who only hums in response on occasion and rarely offers an opinion, but for the first time since being dumped here Draco feels less lonely. Draco needs someone he can dump his thoughts on, so he doesn’t have to sit in the quiet of his own mind, even if it annoys Potter—no, _especially_ if it annoys Potter. 

Potter always goes to bed too early, between nine and ten. Draco has always been more of a night owl than a morning person, but once he is left alone in that living room, the space feels too large for only him. The television can only distract him for so long, and he decides to go to bed early. 

Draco still tosses and turns for a while and has a difficult time shutting off his mind, but when he does fall asleep, he sleeps soundly.

◊ ◊ ◊

The next morning Draco wakes earlier than he has in years, but he gets himself up and goes through his morning routine. He’s still curious to figure out why Potter wakes so early—surely his shop doesn’t open at this hour—but when he goes downstairs the house is empty. Which means Potter is most likely in the garage.

Draco finds him in his garage alright, but not tinkering with one of the motorbikes. And not in the one-piece work suit he is always wearing. No, Potter is using his gym equipment, hanging from a bar on the ceiling and doing pull ups. 

His back is turned to Draco, and he’s wearing loose sports shorts and a thin white vest that’s soaked with large patches of sweat and sticking to his skin. 

Draco’s mouth hangs open a little as he watches the muscles in Potter’s back twist and flex. He has to take a breath and push down the excited fluttering happening low in his abdomen before he moves, walking across the garage and coming around into Potter’s vision. 

Draco also discovers that Potter has several tattoos. One on the back of his left shoulder seems to be of a moon and a constellation. It looks like there is more underneath too, hidden by his shirt. Another on his chest is peeking up towards his collarbones that Draco can’t make out, something spiky and flowery. 

The side of his right shoulder bears a phoenix that’s wings stretch across either side and its tail feathers curl down his biceps. His left forearm has several heavy, black rings around it with things in between, trees, various animals, and geometric patterns. It looks like there’s another on his thigh, but Draco can only see a hint of it poking below his shorts. 

Potter’s eyes catch onto Draco and track his movement as he comes into view, though he doesn’t stop his exercises. Draco leans against the wall beside the gym equipment. 

For a moment neither of them say anything, and Draco unabashedly lets his eyes roam over Potter’s form, over the bulge of his biceps and the way his pecs and abs stretch and then bunch in their movement. His dark skin shows easily through the thin, wet cotton and Draco finds the darker circles of his firm nipples, then traces the triangle of hair on his chest and the money trail further down. 

Draco bites his lip at the strip of skin exposed between Potter’s vest and his shorts, showing the hint of hips and the V of his Adonis belt leading down to his crotch. There’s a vague shape of his equipment there, but the loose shorts remove most definition from the area. 

If it weren’t for the looseness of his robes, Draco might be worried about the visibility of a certain reaction happening in his own crotch. 

Draco clears his throat and blinks a few times to clear his head. When he looks back up to Potter’s face, Potter is no longer watching him, instead he’s staring straight ahead in concentration. Draco tracks a bead of sweat as it runs out of Potter’s temple, down his cheek, and into his short beard.

“I don’t suppose you saved any breakfast for me?” Draco asks. 

Potter’s eyes glance over to him, he grunts, then looks away, back to focusing on his workout. His mouth moves minutely around the shape of numbers, though none are spoken out loud. 

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Draco drawls. “Just what I always wanted, a Neanderthal for a roommate.” 

Not expecting any sort of response, and not getting one, Draco settles in and relaxes further against the wall as he watches Potter’s workout. The open garage doors let a cool breeze into the space that lightly ruffles loose strands of Potter’s hair, which has been tied back into a messy sort of bun. 

“So, this is what you get up so early for every morning?” Draco asks, watching as Potter drops from the bar when his watch beeps at him. 

He picks up a round sort of weight with a handle, and then drops into a sequence of low squats. And Merlin have mercy, Draco barely retains his train of thought at the sight of Potter’s shapely arse making its presence known as such. 

“No–no wonder you’re—” Draco stutters out, struggling to find an insult to land on. 

Salazar, what is wrong with him? Draco has to mentally slap himself. It’s not as if he’s never been around attractive men before. It’s not as if he’s never _bedded_ attractive men before, men with such sculpted bodies. Draco had been a rather handsome lad in his time. Hell, he still is. He’s not so old as to have lost his own charms. 

“I suppose one must keep up with their exercises when their personality falls so short.” Nailed it. 

Potter doesn’t respond though, which is boring. What’s the point in sparring with someone who won’t even pick up a wand? Draco rolls his eyes and focuses his gaze away from Potter’s well-developed glutes. 

Potter, this is _Potter_ , damnit, Draco reminds himself. The Boy Who Hated Him, The Boy Who Lived to Thwart Draco, The Boy Who Went Off His Rocker and Killed a Man. With their history there should be absolutely no confusion on where they stand with each other. There shouldn’t be an ounce of attraction. 

And yet, even back at Hogwarts he had had some appeal, with that dark skin, raven hair and wild eyes. Gods, and the passion he put into literally every single thing he did. 

_Blech._ Draco might as well write a bodice-ripper, the way his thoughts are going. 

He finds some inane subject to start talking about, how wizards exercise and how it’s superior to Muggle practices. Draco doesn’t actually know if there is any truth to it, but he will say anything to get his mind away from ripping Potter’s clothes off. He could leave, go back into the house, have some toast. Except no, he can’t, and his eyes find their way back to Potter’s arse. 

Before long Potter finishes his exercise and grabs a small, white towel that had been hanging off the bar of the bench press. He wipes the sweat from his face and neck as he turns and heads inside.

Draco keeps up the string of his tangent as he follows Potter. He expects the man to go upstairs for a shower, but instead he stops in the kitchen and begins preparing breakfast. He turns the hob on, which Draco studies curiously, and puts a couple pans on it. 

Potter swirls a chunk of butter around one pan, then cracks three eggs into it, which is not nearly enough, so while Potter is busy chopping kale, Draco cracks three more into the pan. Potter stops and looks at him, then looks at the extra eggs in the pan, then back up at Draco.

“What? I’m helping,” Draco says innocently and flutters his eyelashes. 

The corner of Potter’s mouth twitches, and Draco can’t be sure whether he’s fighting a smile or a frown, but he’s pretty sure it’s a smile by the way his crow’s feet deepen for half a second, and Draco feels smug about it. 

Draco keeps ‘helping’ him after that, adding extra kale and extra bacon when Potter doesn’t put in enough for two. 

Potter appears unimpressed but huffs out a sigh and, seeming resigned to the situation, sticks a wooden spoon in his hand and grunts, “Here. Stir.” 

“Oh, we’re up to one-word sentences now? How advanced. I think I’ll start calling you Ugg every time you grunt at me so,” Draco muses, but he helpfully stirs the kale while Potter fries the eggs and flips the bacon. 

They stand close and move around each other in the kitchen somewhat awkwardly, but Draco makes it work. He is not going to have one more damn morning of toast for breakfast. And if it also means he gets to ogle Potter in his sweaty workout clothes a little longer, well, then that’s just a bonus. 

Potter smells disgusting, and by that he means divine. He smells heady, like sweat and sex and man and Draco wants to lap up every bead of sweat on his body. It’s a sign that maybe Draco’s gone a bit too long without a good fuck. 

Hell, who is he kidding? It’s only been a week, but Potter’s checking all his boxes right now and Draco is struggling to remember why a romp in the sheets with him is a bad idea. 

When breakfast is done, Potter pulls out one of the stools from under the counter and sits. It’s the first time Draco has seen him eat somewhere other than in front of the telly. Draco goes along with it and pulls up the stool next to him. 

He comments on the food as he eats it, telling Potter his own recipe for making perfect eggs and judging him for his burnt toast. 

The rest of the day passes similarly to the previous. Draco invades as much of Potter’s space as he can, filling the silence with babble and needling at Potter’s lacklustre personality as much as he can. 

Slowly but surely Draco is breaking his way into that shell. He can feel it with every furrowed brow, every half-frown, and every irritated scoff—he’s getting under Potter’s skin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter has brief mention of Harry's past drug abuse, and some heated and violent arguments.

The next morning Draco sleeps in a little longer and wonders if he might have missed Potter’s workout. Probably for the best if he did. When he does wake up, he wakes to the smell of food.

Washed and ready for the day, he goes downstairs expecting the same sort of day he’s been faced with this last week only to discover something completely different. As he makes his way downstairs the rich aroma of food—of pie, and bread, and cooking vegetables and meats—gets stronger.

Draco is surprised to discover the source of it is Potter in the kitchen cooking like mad. He’s wearing an apron that’s printed to look like a tuxedo. 

There are various pies, breads, empty tin baking dishes, pie crusts, and all sorts of ingredients spread over every surface of the kitchen. Draco has to stop and stare in wonder and confusion at it all. 

“Potter.” He’s not sure what to follow that up with. 

Potter glances at him but says nothing. 

Draco blinks a few times, then cocks a hip out and rests a hand on it. “You know, when I said I’d appreciate some food I hadn’t realised you’d taken it quite to heart. I’m touched,” he drawls with a cocky smirk, then reaches for a pasty.

Quick as a flash Potter snaps out and smacks Draco’s hand with a spatula. 

Draco snatches his hand back with an offended yelp, cradling it against his chest and glaring at Potter. 

“Not for you,” Potter barks and glares at him. He turns back to a large pot on the stove and grabs the spoon in it to stir it left handed while tending to vegetables in a pan with the spatula in his right hand. 

With a huff, Draco crosses his arms and waits for an explanation. When none seems forthcoming, Draco taps his foot and says, “Well? What is all this for if not to feed your starving houseguest?” 

Potter snorts but doesn’t answer, so Draco presses further.

“Why on Earth would you need this much food?” he asks and pauses, but Potter remains silent. “And how exactly do you expect me to make myself breakfast when you’ve so thoroughly commandeered the kitchen? There’s not an inch of counter space or even a place on the stove left for me to utilise.”

Draco taps his foot impatiently.

“Well? Are you truly so cruel as to let me starve while laying a veritable feast at my feet?”

“Argh, Christ,” Potter groans. “Just take a damn pasty, you—” He cuts off abruptly and purses his lips.

“Hm? What was that, Potter? I don’t think I caught that last bit,” Draco taunts. “Was that an insult about to leave your mouth?”

Draco can see the muscle in Potter’s jaw tightening and it makes his smirk widen. 

“Please, don’t hold back on my account,” he says and then picks up a pasty, eating it smugly and watching Potter stew while stirring his stew. It’s immensely satisfying. 

“So, is this a secret feast?” Draco asks, leaning against the counter and watching Potter cook. “Am I not allowed to know what all this is for?”

Potter turns to get at something on the counter behind Draco, stopping and frowning faintly at him. Draco crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. 

He gets an eye roll for it, and Potter says, “You’re in my way. Either move or help.” 

Draco cocks his head in thought then moves, but he also says, “What needs doing?”

So Potter puts him to work, stirring things, filling pie crusts, chopping vegetables. A couple hours of this go by, and it all seems to move forward in a practised sort of dance. Everything is timed carefully so that almost no minute is spent idle while something is cooking. 

Around the time that Potter starts slowing down and Draco is ready to call it quits, the door to the garage opens and in walks a short, skinny woman that looks to be in her 30’s. 

“Harry? Are you ready?” she asks in a high, friendly tone, a happy smile on her face. Her eyes land on Draco and she stops short. “Oh.” 

“Almost done,” Potter says without turning away from the hob. He seems disinclined to properly greet the woman or introduce Draco to her. 

She blinks at Draco a couple times, eyes traveling up and down his robes curiously. She looks like she might be Southeast Asian, though Draco can’t be sure. She has a bit of an accent, but he can’t place it. 

“You must be May,” Draco guesses, putting on a pleasant smile.

“Oh! Yes, of course, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says with a small bow of her head. 

“Draco,” he fills in, and then offers her a hand, which she shakes. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

She’s still smiling, though the expression looks sort of amused and confused. After a short hesitation she asks kindly, “Where are you from?” 

It’s Draco’s turn to be taken off guard. “Er, Wiltshire.” 

She gives a surprised laugh, then cuts it short.

“Oh, sorry,” she says with an apologetic expression. Her hands are clasped politely in front of her, her posture seeming to make her look smaller. She looks to Potter and says, “I didn’t know you’d taken in another stray.” 

“He’s,” Potter begins, turning and glancing at Draco, then finishes, “yeah.”

There is an awkward silence that follows. May looks at Draco. She smiles, and Draco smiles. 

“Where are you from?” Draco decides to reflect the question back on her.

“Thailand,” she answers with an easy smile.

“Oh, Thai? Perhaps you can give me one of those wonderful Thai massages I’ve heard so much about,” Draco purrs, leaning forward onto his hands and leering, seeing an opportunity to get to Potter through his associates. He always was touchy about his friends.

An expression of concern flashes across her face for a second and then is gone again. Draco darts a look at Potter to find the man with the strongest show of emotion Draco’s seen yet. Potter is glowering at Draco so hard Draco wonders if he’s trying to light his hair on fire.

Draco licks his bottom lip nervously and clears his throat.

May smiles hesitantly and shakes her head. “Sorry, I—I don’t—”

Draco plasters on a warm smile. “Of course not, how presumptuous of me.”

“No, it’s okay,” she says with a smile and a small bow of her head, holding her hands up in a placating gesture. 

Draco only feels slightly bad, but it got a response from Potter. Before he can think of the next thing to say that might get to him, the door opens again and a boy comes in. He’s white with brown hair and is looks to be in his early 20’s. 

He stops and looks at Draco, the way May had. “Huh, took in another one, eh?” he asks, then looks to Potter without waiting for a response or an introduction. “This ready?” 

Potter nods at him and the boy starts grabbing at the large, rectangular tins Draco and Potter had filled with all the food they’d been cooking. May joins him, and together they come in and out of the garage, making several trips and taking it all away. Draco watches and doesn’t offer to help. He has helped enough this morning, thank you very much.

Potter has packaged up the last of it when they come back in from their fourth trip. May stops and lets the boy take the last of it. She sets a folder down on the table and says, “The latest numbers.”

“Thanks,” Potter thanks her tonelessly, though somehow it comes across as still grateful to Draco’s ear.

“Would you like to come with us this time?” May asks him gently. “Help serve? Eat with the women?”

“No, thanks,” Potter declines. 

Draco watches this interaction curiously, then when it doesn’t seem to be going any further he asks May, “What is all this for anyway? Potter wouldn’t tell me.”

She turns and blinks at him, eyebrows raising. “Potter?” she echoes, then gives Potter a questioning look.

Potter turns and gives Draco that hard-lipped expression, the one that wants to be a glare but Potter won’t let it quite get there.

“My nickname for him,” Draco smoothly corrects, a sly smile slipping onto his expression. “Because he’s such a tosspot.” 

May laughs and gives Potter an amused look. Before she can say anything the boy comes back in and dumps a bunch of grocery bags onto the newly cleared counter.

“Is everything you need on the list?” At Draco’s confused look she turns a hard eye on Potter. “You did show him the list, right?”

“It’s been there the whole time,” Potter says dismissively, gesturing toward the fridge were the shopping list had been hanging.

“There are a few things, actually,” Draco quickly intercedes, seeing his opportunity to get some products he’s been sorely missing. “I’m not sure what sort of skincare products are available locally, but at the _very least_ I’ll need a moisturiser.”

She snickers, glances at Potter and says, “Of course. Not everyone is so blessed that they can ignore their skincare routine. Just put what you want on the list.”

Draco takes the list from her and writes down all the products he wants and hopes that Muggles have similar. He hands it back to May and she glances over it, then looks up at Draco’s face with a more discerning eye. 

She nods and makes a note for herself, then rips the list off the pad. She writes a number down on the next piece of paper, rips that off and hands it to Draco. 

“My number, please contact me if you need anything else. I don’t know how much of this Harry has explained to you,” she says and pauses to give the man in question a look, “but you can put what you need on the list and it will come with the weekly groceries.”

At that Draco raises an eyebrow at Potter. “You have your groceries delivered to you?” It was Draco’s understanding that Muggles liked to shop in those enormous markets they build. Ron had taken him once before, memorably. “I thought you said you didn’t have any house elves?” 

The skin around Potter’s eyes tighten as he gives Draco a hard look, probably telling him to shut up in his stoic, caveman kind of way that Draco is getting accustomed to. 

“House elves?” May asks curiously, looking between them. “Harry doesn’t leave the house,” she adds cautiously.

Draco shakes his head and switches tracks. “You never answered what all this is for. The food.” 

“Oh! Sorry, um. It’s for the Women’s Shelter in Huddersfield, the one Harry built. You didn’t know?” Draco shakes his head and regards Potter speculatively. “He cooks every Sunday for them, since it’s the closest. The others have catering delivered to them.”

“The other what?” Draco asks.

“The other shelters,” May explains slowly, glancing at Potter, who has turned away to start cleaning the kitchen, acting as if he couldn’t care less that they’re talking about him. “Harry’s built several of them across the country, shelters for victims of domestic violence, trafficking victims, homeless youth.”

“How interesting,” Draco drawls, watching Potter as he fills the dishwasher with dirty pots and pans. “He never mentioned it.”

May looks between them, that curious smile making another appearance. She looks as if she’s about to say something but is cut off by the boy poking his head in through the door. “All done here. You ready, May?” 

“Yes,” she nods and then looks back at Draco. “It was nice to meet you, Draco. Bye, Harry.” 

Potter nods at her and the boy, and they both leave. Potter glances over at Draco with an irritated expression.

“Still saving the world then, Potter?” Draco asks smugly, sticking a hand on his hip. 

Potter reaches over and snatches the bit of paper from Draco’s hand, which May had written her phone number on. Draco makes a noise of annoyance but he lets Potter take it. Just because he knows what it is doesn’t mean he has any idea how to use it.

“She’s not here to serve you,” Potter says, attempting the usual even tone but it comes out harsher.

Draco raises an eyebrow at him. “Is she here to service you?” The line around Potter’s mouth tightens and Draco feels giddy at finding something new he can dig at Potter with, scarcely able to control the sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“No,” Potter spits. The air feels starts to feel heavy and charged with power, like the feeling of oncoming lightning. The hair on Draco’s arms raise, and he wonders if this is Potter’s doing, if it’s his magic. Draco swallows down his fear and pretends like he doesn’t notice.

“Is she not your assistant?” Draco asks innocently, tilting his head to one side.

Potter’s jaw tightens, then he corrects himself, “In a strict professional capacity.” His tone hardens even more, making it clear he wants this conversation to end, but when has Draco ever given Potter what he wanted?

“I’m sure you have many _professionals_ catering to your needs,” Draco drawls and Potter _scowls._ He actually scowls! It’s gone in a flash, but Draco knows it was there and he practically preens at the knowledge of it.

Potter turns away and pulls the apron off in hard, jerky movements. 

“You really don’t ever leave the house?” Draco asks Potter’s back. “Surely you aren’t actually agoraphobic.”

Instead of answering, Potter walks away, taking that charged feeling of magic with him. 

If anything, Draco might liken it to a temper tantrum. A subtle, quiet temper tantrum, in which Draco doesn’t see Potter for the rest of the day.

◊ ◊ ◊

The following morning, a Monday, finds Potter right back to work in the garage and Draco wonders if he ever takes a day for himself. Potter is especially quiet and seems determined to return to blocking any and all emotions from being expressed.

Draco spends time with him in the garage, reading out loud from the gossipy Muggle magazines he finds in Potter’s office by the customer’s chairs. He had dragged one of the chairs out of Potter’s office so he could sit more comfortably in the garage while needling at Potter. 

He makes sure Potter knows exactly his feelings on the articles he reads, heavily judging these Muggles for their wild, impulsive lifestyles. 

“No wonder you turned to drugs if you were raised Muggle, who knew it was such a rampant disease in their society,” Draco comments airily. “And this Johnny Depp fellow is supposed to be some sort of prominent figure? How do their leaders retain such high standing if they’ve no morals?”

Draco glances over to see Potter looking at him. He seems unimpressed, even with that carefully blank expression. Draco waits, but Potter soon turns back to his work without saying anything on the matter.

“I really don’t understand these Muggles. In Wizarding Britain if a witch or wizard of high standing is found to be abusing illicit substances, they are swiftly and surely removed from their position,” Draco says conversationally, then stops and lowers the magazine, looking at Potter in faux surprised realisation. “Oh, but I suppose you’re quite familiar with that process then, aren’t you?”

A muscle in Potter’s jaw twitches, and Draco accepts this small victory, even though Potter doesn’t look up at him again. 

He continues on, taunting Potter where he can and making it sound as if he’s merely making conversation with him, like this is all really just beneath him. 

When Draco gets bored of that he moves the chair outside the open garage door and reads a book. He makes a cup of tea and stays in the shade, but he enjoys the warm afternoon air, the cool breeze, the birds chirping and the sound of the trees moving. 

Being out in the country in a small town is familiar and comfortable to Draco. This property doesn’t have such wonderful woods as the Manor, but it’s similar enough that he can find some comfort in it. 

When a customer comes by to presumably pick up their motorbike from Potter, they pause on the way in to gawk at Draco and his robes. Draco takes the opportunity to strike up a conversation with the rugged, leather-clad old man that looks like he could pick Draco up and wring him out like a sponge. 

It doesn’t bother him though, talking to such a fellow and a Muggle at that. Much as he complains, Draco has become more adept at socialising with all sorts from his job. He also happens to be somewhat desperate for interaction with someone, anyone, who will respond to him like a normal goddamn person. 

Draco informs the man that he is new in the area and they discuss the best places in town to visit. The man tells him of a restaurant that sells the best Pukka Pie in the area and the nicest scenic roads to drive down, until Potter comes along and interrupts their conversation. 

When the sun dips lower and it must be getting close to supper, Draco sets his book down, stands and stretches. He means to head back in, but the faint buzzing sensation of wards distract him. 

Ever curious, Draco walks a few steps further away from the garage, feeling for the magic he knows exists. It’s subtle, but undeniably there when he concentrates. 

He glances back and finds Potter standing in the open doorway to the garage, watching him. 

“How far do the wards extend?” Draco asks. 

After a second in which Draco wonders if Potter will tell him, Potter answers, “A few yards beyond the house. To the pavement, about.”

Draco steps out a little further, reaching out and feeling for the end of the wards. The magic feels sharper there, more discernible as an edge. He can’t tell exactly which wards they are, but he does get a feel for the strength of them, the way his own core reacts by sending sparks skittering out across his skin, down his arms and legs, leaving a tingling sensation in his toes. 

Draco’s always been sensitive to magic, and it sends a shudder down his spine to feel Potter’s magic at work, so present and strong around him. 

At first Draco had thought that Potter lived mostly like a Muggle, but over the last few days he’s observed that that isn’t exactly true. He has yet to see a wand in Potter’s hand, but that doesn’t mean he never does any magic. In fact, Draco thinks that Potter does magic more frequently then Potter himself realises.

It’s always small things—Accioing a spoon into his hand that’s across the counter instead of reaching for it, or warming his tea with a charm when it gets cold—but it always happens so casually, and with such little fanfare, that it seems entirely natural for Potter, like performing nonverbal, wandless magic is unimpressive and barely worthy of note. 

It took Draco by surprise the first time he’d seen it, not only because the casual use of such powerful magic was both thrilling and terrifying, but because he hadn’t expected to see any magic from the man who ran away from the magical world. 

Draco’s train of thought is interrupted by a Muggle turning the corner onto the street. They’re walking their dog and Draco pastes on a friendly smile and waves. 

“Hello neighbour!” he calls out to them. He does it not because he’s feeling particularly friendly, but because it’s like to annoy Potter the same way it annoyed him that Draco talked to his customer. 

The Muggle seems a little startled by the loud greeting, but returns it, albeit much more hesitantly. “Er, hullo.” She eyes Draco’s wizard robes with confusion and quickens her pace to pass him.

A look back informs him that Potter is still in the same place, watching him with his arms crossed. Draco smirks and saunters back into the garage, grabbing his book along the way and dragging the chair just inside, but not putting it back in Potter’s office. 

“Are you finished yet? It’s about dinner time, wouldn’t you say?” Draco asks. 

Potter grunts in answer and turns away.

“That’s right, Ugg. Dinner time. Food good,” he taunts him.

Draco hears the sigh and sees Potter shake his head in response, but he doesn’t say anything as he unzips the blue coveralls that he always works in and slips out of them, hanging them up and then heading inside. Draco follows him, but instead of stopping in the kitchen as expected, Potter goes through the living room and upstairs. 

Draco huffs and glances around at all the Muggle devices in the kitchen, wondering if Potter expects him to prepare something, as if he should somehow be able to use any of the appliances he’s unfamiliar with. 

He doesn’t have to wonder long though, because soon Potter comes back down with a stack of clothes in his arms that he shoves on Draco. 

“You need to stop wearing your robes,” Potter declares flatly.

Draco scoffs in offense. “Excuse me?”

The crease appears on Potter’s forehead to signify his frustration, but he explains, “This is a small town, people talk. And if you’re going to go flouncing about, announcing your presence to every person that comes along, you need to blend in.”

Draco bristles at that. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to go ‘flouncing about’ if I weren’t stuck in this bloody shoe box, with only the Great Wall of Silence for company. I’ve known flobberworms with more personality than you,” Draco sneers.

Potter seems unmoved by Draco’s plight. “I thought you came here to hide. Going about greeting everybody who passes by dressed like that is only going to draw attention.”

“What, on this _bustling_ little street in the middle of Who-the-Fuck-Knows Nowhere?” Draco exclaims. “Yes, I’m sure all these Muggles know exactly who I am and they are just rushing to get to the Ministry and turn me in.”

Potter releases a frustrated sigh, pushes up his glasses and pinches at the bridge of his nose. When he looks back up at Draco his frustration is apparent on his face. “Would you just wear the damn clothes?” 

A cat-like grin slides onto Draco’s face. “Well, now that you’ve asked so nicely.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Draco does start wearing the Muggle clothes, if only to show Potter that Draco will give him what he wants as long as Potter doesn’t ask like a robot. He’s not fond of them, the trousers mostly fit fine, but the shirts are a little large. While Draco has a slight height advantage of a few inches, Potter is bulkier in muscle mass than Draco.

Now that he knows he is capable of getting a reaction out of Potter, Draco amps up his game. The first time he gets a real, physical reaction from Potter comes a few days later as a result of his boredom. 

“Is this really all you do all day long?” Draco whines, throwing up his hands and striding over to Potter to kick one of his tools away from him. It skitters across the floor and clangs against the leg of the workbench. 

Potter looks up at him, face as blank as fresh parchment, and Draco wants to smack him just to leave a mark on it. 

“Argh!” Draco could scream. “You’re the most infuriatingly boring man I’ve ever known! Is this it? Is this what’s become of the great Harry Potter?” Draco twists left and right, arms held out on either side in a sweeping gesture of the garage full of motorbikes. “Just you and your little Muggle toys, day in and day out?”

Potter sighs and quietly and goes back to his work. Draco glares at him, putting his hands on his hips and trying to will a response from Potter with the power of his scowl. It doesn’t work. 

“Nothing, really? Did all those potions addle your brains?” Draco snarks. “Not that there was much there to begin with.”

This doesn’t get any response either. Draco is about to drop it when an idea comes to mind and he smiles wickedly. 

“Do none of your friends ever come and visit you?” Draco asks, tilting his head to get a better angle on Potter’s face, kneeling on the floor as he is, working on yet another motorbike. 

The edges of Potter’s mouth tighten minutely, telegraphing to Draco that he’s found a nerve. After all, Potter’s always been sensitive about his friends. 

“Do you not have any friends anymore? Wouldn’t surprise me, with what I’ve seen,” Draco drawls, inspecting his fingernails to express how little he truly cares about the subject. 

Except Draco would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a certain sense of sick satisfaction from that, he always hated how many friends Potter had and how close they were. Well, now Ron and Hermione are his friends and Potter is all alone. Draco likes to think of this as a deliciously ironic twist of fate.

“No conjugals from that blood traitor she-weasel?” he continues, watching as Potter’s hands pause briefly in their work and a muscle in his jaw jumps. “Oh but I forgot, she left you, didn’t she? Surely you must be meeting your nasty little urges somehow.”

Draco pauses, humming and tapping his bottom lip thoughtfully. Potter’s knuckles are white from gripping his tool so hard. The air feels thick and heavy, and it crackles with the waves of energy coming off Potter. Maybe it’s a sign that Draco should stop, but he knows he’s close to breaking Potter’s facade of stoicism and he’s never been known to back down from getting what he wants.

“Oh. Is it May, then? Of course, I would never fuck a filthy Muggle, but I suppose you’re already a mudblood then, aren’t—”

In the blink of an eye Potter has jumped up and grabbed Draco by the collar. The wind is knocked from him when his back slams against the wall, and then his shirt is digging up into his throat, making him gag and gasp for breath as Potter easily lifts him off his feet by it.

“You want to know about my nasty little urges?” Potter breathes, face close enough to Draco’s that he barely needs to speak above a whisper, which is somehow more terrifying than if he were yelling. And while this is the sort of response Draco has been trying to get out of him, in this moment all Draco can feel is fear.

Potter’s eyes are dark, filled with a fury and fierceness that’s both familiar and frightening. Draco’s gripping Potter’s wrists and forearms, trying to hang on, trying to loosen his grip while his feet scramble for purchase. 

“That’s what I thought,” Potter mutters, and then it’s over almost as fast as it began. 

Potter drops him and Draco catches himself against the wall before he can fall on his face, gasping and choking, bent double. He rubs his neck where the shirt had been cutting into his skin.

When he looks up, Potter is already gone.

◊ ◊ ◊

After that thrilling incident one might think that Draco would back off, but instead he does the opposite. After that, the floodgates open up and Draco stops holding back.

As terrifying and nostalgic as it was to see his life flash before his eyes at the hands of Harry Potter, once Draco gets his teeth into something he does not let go, and Potter’s reaction only makes Draco bite down harder. 

And yes, Draco is scared. He would have to be an idiot not to be. Potter is powerful and unpredictable, and he’s either unresponsive or pushing Draco against a wall with no stage in between. He doesn’t seem to have control of his magic, because when Draco gets him really riled up, the air becomes charged with wild magic and Draco feels as if he’s about to be struck by lightning.

Much to his amusement, Draco gets the sense that Potter even feels some measure of shame for his actions. Draco can see it in his eyes, and for a while afterward Potter makes an obvious effort to steer clear of Draco. He also renews his effort to not react to Draco pushing his buttons, which is irritating but tells Draco that in some way Potter _does_ still exist underneath all his bullshit. 

So Draco keeps chipping away, needling at Potter and searching for any nerve he can put pressure on. Potter says very little, only the bare minimum, and Draco doesn’t get much out of him until a few days later when they receive an owl from Hermione. 

The owl comes during breakfast, after a scintillating morning of watching Potter work out. It’s short and to the point, explaining that the Ministry is giving them the run-around and they are at a standstill with Ron’s case, and that the Wizengamot won’t address Ron’s claims of Draco’s innocence until his own charges are cleared. 

Draco does not take it well. He rages about the incompetence of the Ministry and how blind they are to Damian’s schemes. Potter seems even less interested in the subject than usual, if that’s possible, and Draco turns his anger on him.

“I’m sorry Potter, am I boring you with this? Are our lives of no consequence to you? Does the rape of our society hold no interest anymore?”

Potter barely spares him a glance, but a muscle jumps in his jaw. 

Draco plants his hands on his hips. “Go on, Ugg,” he encourages sarcastically. “Use your words.”

“It’s none of my business,” Potter finally says in a flat tone.

“Ah! So the Cro-Magnon _can_ speak,” Draco exclaims. “No, please, bless us with your thoughts. Tell us how you feel about Damian’s extremist, Muggle-hugging views. Perhaps you think the Wizarding World might be better served by his fascist policies.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Potter says dully, accompanied by the clinking sounds of his tool tapping the bike as he attaches a piece to it. 

“Of course you wouldn’t know. Why would Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Chosen One, Saviour of the Wizarding World care that the very fabric of our society is being pulled apart by the fucking Antichrist?” Draco fumes, gesturing angrily. 

Potter’s mouth pinches and his fist clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s not much time to anyway, as Draco is just ramping up. 

“Why on Earth should Harry Potter, the boy who defeated the most powerful Dark Lord of our time, one who nearly destroyed our society, care at all that a new powerful and dangerous wizard is trying and succeeding in seizing control of the Ministry? That he is warping the very same world that Harry Potter once saved.”

Potter finally breaks. He stops his work entirely and looks up at Draco, his expression one of barely concealed anger. “I don’t know, Malfoy. Why should I care? Why do _I_ —” He slaps his chest. “—have to be involved at all? I already saved your ruddy world once, what you’ve done with it since has nothing to do with me.”

“Nothing to do with you? It has everything to do with you! This all started with your trial. If Damian hadn’t deposed the Hero of the goddamn Wizarding World, his whole campaign of ‘cleaning up Wizarding Society’ and ‘rooting out evil, whatever form it takes’ would never have gained any traction.”

Potter stands and faces Draco. Draco forces himself not to take a step away from him. “So, what? This is somehow all my fault?” Potter grinds out through gritted teeth. “Your government decides to give some arsehole a bit of power, and that’s now my responsibility?”

“If you have the power to change things, then yes!” 

Potter’s eyes flash and the corner of his mouth twists up in a sardonic smile. “And what am I supposed to do then? Kill him? March into the Ministry and demand a duel to the death? He’s the bloody Chief Warlock, not some Dark wizard running about killing and torturing people. Maybe you should consider the reasons why _you_ don’t like him, like that he’s erasing your precious Pureblood culture.”

“That’s bullshit! And just because he doesn’t practice Dark Arts doesn’t mean he’s any less deadly,” Draco retorts. “And it sure as hell doesn’t mean that people aren’t suffering or even dying at his hands.” 

Potter scoffs and Draco balls his hands into fists. 

“Do even have any idea what’s been going on, out here in your own little bubble of isolation? Do you even know anything about the random searches? The arrests? The interrogations? The people who go missing in the middle of the night and are never heard from again? Do you know _anything_ about what’s really going on?”

“Do _you?_ ” Potter challenges. “Haven’t you been holed up with a group of Dark wizards, living in the lap of luxury off in some mansion, waiting for someone else to come save the day once again? Do you know anything about it that isn’t filtered through some racist Pureblood perspective?”

“Wha—that—” Draco throws his hands out, palm up, and his face twists into one of confusion and frustration. “Not even one word of that—and how would you even—that’s not what I have been doing!” Draco finally finds his feet, thrown as he was by Potter’s words. “I have been risking my neck working undercover to keep what happened during the war from happening again!”

“Yeah? And how’s that working for you?” Potter asks dryly. “Weren’t you just saying how the Antichrist is unravelling society as we know it?”

“Well, he’s not a Dark wizard. You said so yourself!” Draco snaps and sticks a finger in Potter’s face.

Potter smacks his hand aside and takes a step closer to Draco. “How lovely for you then. You get to point the finger at someone else when a new dictator rises to power, all while living off in the same cushy life, being the same bigoted, selfish arsehole you always have been.” 

He takes another step forward, and Draco sneers but can’t stop himself falling back a step. 

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Just like your father, you get to erase all accountability for your actions. Even better, you get to say that your prissy lifestyle, that practicing Dark Arts with other shitheels just like you, was all pretend and you get to be glorified as a hero.” 

Potter takes another step, and Draco moves with him but is rapidly running out of room. Despite Draco’s height advantage, Potter is somehow _looming_ over him, and it sets Draco’s teeth on edge.

“Are you happy, Malfoy? Does it feel _goood_ to be the hero?” Potter mocks, his eyes dark and his expression shadowed. 

It bothers Draco, more than he expects. It hits on a nerve of Draco’s desire to be useful, to make up for his past deeds, to be able to say he was on the right side of things this time. He knows he can never make right what he did in the war, and most days he tries not to think about it. It’s many years behind him now, but he can still feel it hanging over him and everything he does like a dark cloud.

After all, if it weren’t for his history Damian’s men probably wouldn’t have attacked him like they did. They wouldn’t be so adamant about his guilt if he hadn’t been a Death Eater. Draco clutches his left arm to his stomach, unconsciously moving to hide the old mark from sight.

If he was someone like Ron, or—no. Draco stops that line of thought right there. There’s no use in mulling over ‘if’s. 

Draco sets his jaw and shoves Potter. He doesn’t trip or stumble the way Draco hoped he would, but he does drop back a couple steps and a flash of surprise registers in his expression. 

“At least I’m not a coward,” Draco spits. “At least I didn’t run away at the first sign of trouble. At least I give enough of a damn to stick around and try to make things better. Not the great Harry Potter though. No, one thing went wrong in your life and you fled with your tail between your legs. Is that all it takes then, to scare away the Boy Who Lived? A little bit of bad press?” 

Potter is clenching his jaw hard enough to break teeth and the air is charged and heavy with magic, but he doesn’t stop Draco.

“You know what I think? I think you just couldn’t stand being a failure. You failed being an Auror. You failed at your marriage. You couldn’t even save all those kidnapped children before you had a meltdown—”

Draco jumps when something on Potter’s workbench shatters. Hundreds of little pieces of metal rain down onto the metal table and concrete floor, creating a cacophonous, metallic hailstorm for a few seconds. 

The muscles in Potter’s right arm flex as his fist twists and clenches. Draco swallows, but he doesn’t back down. He wrinkles his nose in a sneer and keeps pushing. 

“I’m surprised you even managed to kill old Voldie, though maybe fate had more a hand in that than you actually did,” he says and snorts derisively. “You’re washed up. You’re a one-hit-wonder. You want to hide away here, play with your little Muggle machines, play like you’re still living and not already dead inside? You go right ahead. We don’t need you. We don’t need this.” Draco gestures up and down Potter’s form. “This isn’t the man who inspired a rebellion, who stopped a war and defeated a Dark Lord. The Potter I knew never would have given in so easily. The Potter I knew never would have abandoned his friends and his family.”

Potter snarls and stalks forward, and Draco expects to get hit or shoved or grabbed, but Potter doesn’t touch him. “You don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about,” he growls, barely above a whisper, leaning into Draco’s space. 

“Don’t I? How far off the mark can I be if you’re this hot and bothered by it?” 

Potter’s expression is thunderous and the air crackles with flares of wild magic coming off him, white hot sparks that burst into life like miniature fireworks in the air around them. Several of the motorbikes and tools start shaking.

“You want to shove me against a wall again? Break every object in here? You want to bring the whole roof down on my head? Fine, do it,” Draco snarls. “Do it! I’d rather see that Potter any day of the week over this pathetic husk walking around in his skin.”

Potter’s lip curls and his jaw clenches. His chest expands with an unsteady breath, and his eyes dart between Draco’s. There’s a moment when Draco thinks he might just do something like that, but then it passes. Potter slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. His fists unclench, his shoulders drop, the fire dies from his eyes and his expression slackens. 

By the time Potter turns and walks away he’s back to that infuriatingly blank state, like his brain’s been scooped from his head. His wild magic fades and the room settles into stillness.

“Go ahead, Potter, run away!” Draco calls after him. “It seems to be the only thing you’re good at anymore!”

The door closes behind Potter, a soft but definitive click where Draco would have expected a slam.

“Argh!” Draco howls, running his hands through his hair and starting to pace around the garage. 

Hermione’s letter, which had started all this, lies almost completely forgotten on the floor and Draco kicks at it ineffectually. It scarcely scoots but a couple centimetres and Draco snatches it up, rips it to shreds, and flings the pieces. 

Draco marches to the open door of the garage and then stops. He looks out at the street and the neighbourhood and seriously contemplates leaving. His robes are upstairs, but his wand is at his wrist and his emergency kit is in his pocket. He could walk away now. There’s nothing here he would miss. 

His heart is beating a mile a minute and his breath is still ragged from the heated argument. He slowly releases a shaky breath and tries to remind himself of his options. 

They’re rather bleak.

Option A, he could turn himself in, give his testimony to what happened and put his faith in the justice system. The justice system which Damian is the current head of.

Option B, he could maybe steal a broom or try to use Muggle transit to get to his villa in France, but the Ministry is most likely watching all of his properties closely. 

Option C, he could try to contact Pansy and beg her to hide him away, but the last time they spoke was eight years ago during a vicious fight in which they both screamed about never wanting to see each other ever again. Even then, the Ministry is likely watching any of his known associates, of which there are precious few. 

Option D, he could try to make it on his own in the Muggle world. Surely he would be just as well hidden with any Muggle as he is with Harry bloody Potter. Still, there’s too many dangerous and unknown variables for this to be viable.

Option E, he could try to hide away in the wild, camp out somewhere. Except Draco wouldn’t last a week without a roof over his head and a proper bed to sleep in.

Option F, he stays with Potter.

Draco starts pacing again as he goes in circles in his own head about it. No matter how he looks at it, Potter is his best option. Potter might kill him with the way they’re going, but otherwise Draco is safe. He’s in a warded space where no one would think to come looking for him, and Ron and Hermione know his location. He has a roof and a bed and three warm meals a day.

Draco stops and closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath and releasing it slowly, working to calm his nerves down. He reminds himself that this is what he wanted. He wanted to get Potter riled up. He wanted to see him angry. Hell, he even wanted to see him violent because that would mean that the same Potter he knew all those years ago still exists in him somewhere. 

An angry Potter and a violent Potter is something he’s used to, something he can handle. What is so frustrating about it all is that even when he’s angry he still doesn’t seem to give a rat’s arse. 

How can Potter care so little about what’s going on in the Wizarding World? How can he not care that Ron is in jail, that what used to be his friends and family are in danger? Maybe not as directly as they were from Voldemort, but still. Damian’s rise to power is not good for anyone, Muggle-born and Pureblood alike. 

Draco scrubs a hand over his face, then he takes in a deep breath. Slowly, he turns and walks into the house.


	4. Chapter 4

Even Draco needs a small break after that fight. He continues to invade Potter’s space, taking over his chair and the TV, sitting in the garage while he works, chatting up his customers, and ‘helping’ him cook enough portions for the both of them. He is who he is, after all. But he doesn’t try to push any of Potter’s bigger buttons for a few days. Surprisingly, it’s Potter who instigates their next row. 

Draco has gotten in the habit of waking up as early as Potter so he can make sure he gets some of the food Potter makes for breakfast, but more so that he can watch Potter’s workout routine. Potter works out six days a week, and the only day he doesn’t is Sunday when he wakes up extra early to cook for the residents of his shelters. 

Which exercises he does in his workout always changes, but it usually lasts an hour and Draco pretends to read while self-indulgently watching as Potter’s muscles stretch and flex and droplets of sweat run down his dark skin. It’s become a bit of a problem in that it’s started to feature in Draco’s late-night fantasies, but he tries to play it off like he’s not horny and desperate enough to want Potter’s cock. 

Today, Draco is sure that Potter has gone well over an hour, and, as much as he loves watching Potter’s beautifully full, round buns working, he’s hungry and ready to move on.

With a snap, Draco closes his book and fixes an unimpressed look on Potter. “Well, as thrilling as this poorly disguised self-flagellation is to watch, are we ever going to get to breakfast? I’m starved.” 

“Funny,” Potter breaths between reps. He’s doing squats again, this time with a barbell on his shoulders.

“Yes I know, I’ve a great comedic wit. Thank you for noticing. When do we get to the food?” His stomach rumbles to emphasise his point.

Potter dips down and then pushes back up. “No,” he pants. 

“Excuse me? What do you mean ‘no’? You can’t just cancel breakfast without consulting me.”

“No,” he says again, and Draco sighs as Potter takes his time, talking slowly through his heavy breathing and exercise. “It’s funny—you—talking about—self-flagellation.”

Draco’s metaphorical hackles raise and he narrows his eyes at Potter. “And why would that be funny, exactly?”

Potter grunts and it’s a sarcastic one. Draco can tell. He’s learned how to interpret Potter’s more troglodytic methods of communication. 

Draco stands and takes a defensive stance, putting a hand on his hip. “No, go ahead. Tell me, Potter. I’m sure I’d love to hear this.”

With a sigh, Potter stands from his last squat, moves forward and rests the barbell back on its rack. He grabs the small, white towel he always keeps on hand for his workouts and wipes at the sweat on his face before turning to address Draco. 

“I’m just saying,” he says and shrugs, wiping the sweat off his neck and chest. “You’re clearly an expert on it.”

“Bullshit, what would you even know about it?” Draco spits.

“A lot, actually,” Potter says quietly and then turns as if to head inside. As if he can simply bring that up and then drop it.

“No,” Draco snaps and strides in front of Potter, stopping him. “Don’t you throw that tripe at me and then walk away.”

Potter shuts his eyes and sighs, then raises a hand briefly in defeat. “Okay.” He licks his lips, seeming to pause in thought, then looks at Draco. “How long have you been doing undercover work for the Aurors?”

Draco squints suspiciously, but he answers, “Fifteen years.”

“Right,” Potter says definitively, as if that’s cleared it all up. Draco raises his eyebrows expectantly and Potter relents. “Why did you start undercover work?”

Draco furrows his brow, but he answers, “There were still several Death Eaters and sympathisers at large. Robards asked me to help infiltrate them, discover anything they might be scheming and shut it down before another big threat could rise.”

“Yeah,” Potter says and nods a little. 

“No,” Draco argues. “I’m going to need a little more than that, Potter.” 

Potter runs a hand over his beard, then tosses it up in a sort of helpless gesture. “So, you’re telling me that you, Draco Malfoy, went out of your way and put yourself in danger just to bring in some Dark wizards and make the community a little safer? Something any trained Auror could have done instead.”

“Yes,” Draco says defensively. “I know _you_ might find that hard to believe, but—” 

“Yeah, because it is,” Potter cuts him off. “Malfoy, you’ve never done a damn thing for anyone but yourself your entire life.”

Draco’s lips thin, but he knows Potter’s not entirely wrong. “You know as well as I that they were testing my loyalties. It was a request I couldn’t refuse.”

“Sure, and all it took to prove that was one job. Not fifteen years of it,” Potter reasons. “You’re not an Auror, you’re not an officer of the DMLE, at best you’re a contract worker. You could walk away at any time, but you don’t. What do you actually get out of your work? There’s no glory, no headlines in the Prophet, it doesn’t repair your image or the Malfoy name since by the very definition of your job no one can know your real role in it all.”

“Maybe I _enjoy_ my work, Potter,” Draco says tersely, his body tensing with anger and anxiety at the truth in Potter’s words. 

“Do you? You enjoy being surrounded by the same sort that used you when you were a kid? That ruined the Malfoy name? That got your family—and nearly you—killed? Or do you do it because you think it’s what you deserve? Fifteen years is a long time. No Auror works undercover that long. Not even a fraction of that.”

“I—you just said yourself I’m not an Auror. The work suits me,” Draco says evasively, his heart running wild in his chest. “I’m good at seeing what’s missing, figuring out how—”

“And your intellect couldn’t be put to use in other ways?” Potter interrupts him again, much to Draco’s consternation. “I’m sure you could find work you enjoy and still have a life, because I know you can’t have one when you’re constantly pretending to be someone you’re not.”

Draco balls his fists and glares at Potter, wishing his gaze were hot enough to light Potter’s eyebrows on fire. Draco doesn’t at all like the direction of this conversation. It makes him feel like he’s being flayed open and he goes on the attack to try and shift attention off himself. “That’s rather funny, coming from you, seeing how you have so many friends, how you lead such a _full_ and _exciting_ life.”

Potter sighs quietly through his nose, any faint bit of emotion in his face disappearing. “Says the man who has no life at all.”

“That’s bullshit, I have more of a life than you and this farce!” Draco gives an angry, sweeping gesture around the garage and the house and Potter’s life in general. 

“It is what it is, no matter what you compare it to. It’s obvious you’ve made your own life as empty and cheerless as you can to punish yourself. From where I’m standing it looks like you’ve got nothing and no one. You wouldn’t be here if you did.”

“That—that’s not true!” Draco tries to argue. “I have Ron and Hermione.” He tries to throw it in Potter’s face, tries to feel smug about it, because where they used to be Potter’s now they’re Draco’s. 

“Your boss and his wife,” Potter nods along as if this fits perfectly into his argument. “And how often do you see them?”

Draco tongues his teeth and doesn’t answer, knowing it’s not nearly enough to win that point.

“Anyone else? Anyone in your life who is real? Who you’re not connected to through work?”

Draco doesn’t want to answer Potter, he’s not beholden to him, but his pride rears its head and he finds that he can’t leave that unanswered. He just can’t let Potter prove his point so easily. 

“I have Pansy,” he says, but the words don’t come out as strong as he meant them to. He hasn’t seen Pansy in eight years and he knows it’s a weak answer at best and a lie at worst.

“And how’s that going? You catch up often? How much of your life is she actually aware of?” Potter asks and the way he says it, so flat and empty with that neutral expression, makes it that much more hurtful. It digs in the point that Draco has no one. No one cares about him, especially not Potter, who can scarcely scrape up any bit of feeling about this conversation or the fact that he’s carving Draco up and neatly laying out each of his deeply buried regrets for the world to see.

Draco’s taken too long to answer, which he supposes is an answer in itself, so Potter continues cutting into him. 

“She can’t be much of a friend if you never see her.” Potter says flatly. “The real reason you’re here with me isn’t just because the Aurors are being watched, it’s because no one else would take you in. And honestly? Two weeks with you and I’m not surprised.”

“Fuck you, you don’t know a damn thing about me!” Draco snarls. He leans forward and jabs a finger under Potter’s exposed collarbone. “Who the hell are you to judge my life? You’re the pathetic one in this scenario, the Ministry’s little Golden Boy that had everyone and everything but couldn’t handle the pressure so he ran away!”

Potter sighs quietly through his nose, his eyes jumping between Malfoy’s like he’s reading them. “There’s lots of ways to run away, Malfoy. You spend all your energy being on the attack, alienating yourself from anyone who could care about you. If you didn’t need me I’m sure you’d already be out the door.”

That’s all it takes, and it’s like a flip is switched in Draco’s head. 

He’s already made up his mind on what to do as he glares at Potter and says mulishly, “I am forty-two bloody years old and I’ve gotten this far in life without your help. I don’t _need_ you, Potter. I don’t need anyone.” 

On that note, Draco turns and walks past Potter, checking his shoulder as he does. The book is still somehow in his hand, forgotten until now, and Draco chucks it over his shoulder. Head up, back straight, Draco strides purposefully out of the garage.

“Draco,” Potter calls after him. It’s not particularly loud or sharp, but it does carry an edge of surprise and Draco’s not expecting it. The use of his first name makes him falter briefly mid-stride, but it’s not enough to stop him. 

Draco walks down the drive and straight past the wards, ignoring the way it sends his skin tingling and makes the hair on his arms stand on end as he passes through them. 

Draco walks and he walks, and he doesn’t stop walking until his feet are hot and aching, and his toes feel like they’re blistering. He has no idea where he is, but it doesn’t matter. If he doesn’t know where he is then it doesn’t seem likely that anyone else would either. And that’s the point of all this, isn’t it? To hide. To not get arrested. To avoid potential torture or even death at the hands of Damian’s vigilante squad.

On paper Damian and his men wouldn’t torture or kill, but Draco wouldn’t put anything past them at this point. You don’t go about securing impunity for a group of vigilantes so they can sing songs and form a drum circle. 

Potter’s house is somewhat removed from the town, on the edge of it with few neighbouring houses. Draco’s gone far enough that he now finds himself in the heart of the town, or maybe even in the somewhat larger next town over. It’s small and quiet compared to London, but there’s enough activity that Draco can blend in. 

A tiny part of him wonders if Potter might come after him, even imagines him roaring down the street on that black motorbike on the lookout for Draco. 

He easily pushes such a thought away. Potter is a recluse. A hermit. An exile. He’s nobody. He’s not a hero and he’s certainly not anything to Draco. Potter has no reason to come after him, after all he just laid out all the reasons why no one could or should care about him. He made his feelings on the subject quite clear.

Draco stops at a bench and takes his shoes off so he can rub at his hot, aching feet. A cool, spring breeze picks up and Draco takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of it moving through his shirt—Potter’s shirt actually. It’s loose enough on him that some of the air moves through it. 

The sky is clear and sunny, the temperature is mild for late April, and Draco is thankful for it. Getting anywhere would be much worse if he had to slog through the rain. 

As he rests his feet and catches his breath, Draco runs through his options. He has his wand, but if he Apparates it would give his location away. From the drive here he knows that this town is far outside any others, it’s mostly large stretches of farming land between here and the next town. Which means walking anywhere is out. 

He could stay here, somewhere, but he stubbornly doesn’t want to. Draco wants to put as much distance between himself and Potter as he possibly can. If he never saw his stupid face again it would be too soon. 

Potter and his opinions. Potter and his fucking _insight._ As if he could know anything about Draco’s life. 

It’s nothing but a load of horseshit. Draco doesn’t need anyone’s help, and he most certainly doesn’t need Potter’s. 

With an irritated huff, Draco forces thoughts of their argument away and tries to refocus on creating a plan to get out of town. How Draco wishes he had a broom. Then he could go anywhere. 

He wonders at the possibility of there being any other witches or wizards in this town, perhaps a hidden shop. But if Potter’s managed to keep his whereabouts hidden for—how long has it been now? Draco does the maths in his head. Eighteen years. 

If Potter’s managed to keep his whereabouts hidden for the past eighteen years, it doesn’t seem likely that there would be any magical community here. Many people went in search of Harry Potter, no one found him. Or at least, if they did the papers never reported it. Even Skeeter couldn’t find him when she was writing his biography. 

So no chance at getting a broom. Draco doesn’t know enough about Muggle vehicles to operate one, but surely they’ve got some sort of transit system in place. 

Draco’s stomach rumbles in a redundant reminder of how hungry he is. Draco knows he’s hungry, he was already hungry when he and Potter started their row, and now, after what must have been an hour of walking, he feels like his stomach is eating itself. 

There are several restaurants around him but, much as he’d love to eat, Draco doesn’t have any Muggle money to pay for it. It’s no matter. Draco’s survived much worse conditions before, and he’ll be fine to skip a meal. What’s important is that he get somewhere, anywhere that’s not here, and set himself up with a new safehouse.

If only Draco had thought to put a bloody broom in his emergency kit. How could he have such an oversight? Clearly he was underestimating the meaning of emergency. As soon as this is all over, Draco is going to fill it with a broom, a tent, and lots of non-perishable food.

If only he still had his house elf! Draco curses the day Hermione convinced him to free his house elf. All he would have to do is snap his fingers and he would have a broom and a tent, and someone to bring him all his meals.

Draco sighs and lets that thought go. It’s no use wishing for things he doesn’t have. Right now Draco needs to deal with his current situation. He allows himself a few more minutes of rest, and then he puts his shoes back on and heads into a place called Rosie’s. 

A young woman with red hair twisted up in an untidy bun and a name tag that reads, ‘Annie’ greets him from behind the counter. Draco smiles and greets her in kind. 

“Just one?” she asks and pulls out a menu. 

Draco’s mouth waters from the tantalising smells coming from the kitchen. Eggs, bangers, pancakes, and bacon. Draco entertains the idea of how he might get a meal without paying for it, but without magic he’s scared he might end up in a Muggle prison, and that’s enough to put him off the idea. 

“Actually, I’m looking for a way out of town,” he says. “I’m—not from around here.”

“Oh,” she looks surprised, then puts the menu away. “Well sure. Where are you headed?”

Draco has to pause to consider this. Where is he headed? He licks his lips and then answers before the pause can get too long and awkward. “Wiltshire.” 

He knows he can’t stay in the Manor, but he also knows several secret ways he can get onto the property. He can sneak in, grab a broom and some supplies, then be gone before anyone has noticed his presence. At this point it’s his best bet without the use of his wand. 

She looks surprised again by his answer, but answers efficiently. “Okay. If you take the A616 that’ll get you onto the M1, do you need directions to the A616?”

Draco blinks at her. He has no idea what she’s talking about but takes a wild guess that she means traveling by automobile. “I don’t have a car.” 

“Oh! Oh, well in that case do you want directions to the bus station? It’s probably your best bet for a long trip, unless you want to hitchhike,” she says with an amused smile.

Draco returns it. “The bus station, then.”

“Sure, just take a right out of here and follow Huddersfield, then you’ll take another right on Bridge Lane, then another right onto New Mill and that’ll get you there. I’m not sure which bus you’ll want, they can help you figure your route at the station.” 

“Thank you,” Draco says with a grateful smile, and then leaves the restaurant. His stomach rumbles at him as if voicing its objection.

Following the girl’s instructions, Draco starts down the street. He wishes he could call the Knight Bus to him instead, but even that is a risk. He has to avoid using his wand completely, even for the simplest of spells, unless it’s an emergency, and by now his face has most likely been splattered across the front page of the Prophet, urging anyone who sees him to report him to the Ministry. 

The Muggle bus station is a large, open, brick building. There’s a lone glass kiosk in the middle, with a bored teenager sat in it who hasn’t noticed Draco’s presence as the only other person there.

Draco walks up to the kiosk and clears his throat. The teenage boy looks up from his mobile and gives Draco an irritated look, as if Draco is somehow interrupting him by needing to use the bus. 

“I need to get to Wiltshire,” Draco says when the boy doesn’t seem like to offer a greeting. 

“You’ll need the day pass. Buy your ticket at the blue one,” he says and jerks his chin to gesture behind Draco at a line of Muggle machines set against the wall. 

Draco hesitates, glancing back at the boy before nodding and walking over to them. There are four large boxes that are of a height or taller than Draco, one is blue and grey and one is blue and black. Draco is not sure which he’s supposed to use to get his ticket, or how to use it for that matter, and he feels stupidly nervous as he approaches the blue and black machine. 

“Blue!” Draco starts when the boy yells at him, his voice echoing around the large, brick space. When he glances back at him the boy is pointing to his left. “The blue one!” 

Draco furrows his brow but turns back to the machines and moves toward the blue and grey one, thinking irritably about how _both_ the machines are blue and the boy could have just specified which from the start without the unnecessary yelling. 

There’s a screen and several buttons on the machine. Draco squints at it as he reads the instructions, telling him to select which pass he wants. They’re all listed on the screen, but none of the buttons are marked or lined up with the list on the screen, and Draco doesn’t know how he’s expected to know which button to push if they aren’t marked. 

Draco assesses the screen a moment longer before sighing and turning away. He pulls out his emergency bag and digs around in it as he walks back to the boy in the kiosk, whose attention is back down on his mobile phone. 

When he feels his coin purse, Draco pulls it out and then smacks it down onto the metal counter of the kiosk. It makes a loud clanking sound that causes the boy to jump and look up. Draco smirks, feeling somewhat vindicated. 

Draco opens his coin purse, pulls out a galleon and slaps it onto the counter. He knows that Muggles have their own currency, but it’s pure gold. Surely even a Muggle can understand its worth. 

“I don’t understand your machines and I don’t care to. What I need is to get to Wiltshire, and you’re going to get me whatever I need to get there,” Draco says imperiously, standing straight-backed and looking down his nose at the dumbfounded teenager. 

The boy looks at Draco like he’s an alien. 

Draco stares him down with his trademark ‘I’m your better, do as I say’ look, passed down through generations of Malfoys. 

The boy blinks a few times, his mouth hanging open, and then he looks down at the galleon and his face scrunches in confusion. He reaches through a hole in the glass to grab the coin, picking it up and examining it. 

“What the hell is this? You can’t pay with game money,” he says, then pushes it back to Draco. 

“It’s not game money,” Draco snaps, then huffs out a frustrated sigh and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Bloody idiot Muggles,” Draco mutters, then drops his hand to his hip and levels a hard look at the teenager. “That galleon is solid gold and sure to be worth more than whatever the pass actually costs. If you would kindly just get me whatever I need so I can get the hell out of this town and away from judgemental arseholes, it would be much appreciated.”

Half the boy’s face twists up in confusion and he shakes his head. “Look, I don’t know what you’re on about. If you want a pass you get it from the machine, if you don’t have the money for it then I can’t help you.”

“I have money! I just handed you money!” Draco exclaims, gesturing angrily at the galleon on the counter. “And in exchange for payment you are supposed to give me a bloody bus pass.”

“Er.”

“Is that not how your wretched society works?” Draco barrels on. “Money in exchange for goods and services? Is that not how it has been working since one caveman picked up a shiny shell and set off the whole chain of events that led to the monetary system which now lubricates the very foundations of our societies?” 

Draco pauses to give the teen a chance to answer. When he does nothing more than stare at Draco open-mouthed, Draco looks skyward and mutters, “Oh my God.” Clearly he needs to dumb things down for the Muggle. 

Draco point to his own chest. “Me give shiny gold.” He jabs his finger toward the teen. “You give bus pass.”

The boy glares at him, finally seeming to realise he is being insulted. “I’m not losing my job for some tosser. Get your pass like everyone else or jog on.”

Draco throws his hands up and growls in frustration. If it weren’t for the glass separating them, Draco might throttle the adolescent cretin. “Listen to me, you miserable jobsworth—”

“If you don’t step away in five seconds I’m calling security,” the boy says, reaching for a device sat on the counter next to him. 

Draco sneers at him, but he snatches up his galleon and his coin purse, then he marches out of the bus station. 

Unsure how else he might find transit, Draco heads back toward the main area of the small town. Draco’s feet hurt, and his calves and hips feel sore from all this walking. He can’t remember the last time he walked this much. Draco’s become accustomed to a life of relative ease and comfort. When he needs to go somewhere he Floos or Apparates. 

Physical fitness hasn’t factored much in his life these last few years, the best workout he gets is in bed, which he can keep up with just fine thank you very much. Beyond that Draco’s only concern has been in keeping his mind sharp and his wand hand steady for duelling, which they both are. 

For a brief moment Draco wishes he would have taken Potter up on the one time he’d offered to exercise with him, then maybe this wouldn’t be such a hardship. Except Draco neither needs nor wants anything Potter has to offer him, and he quickly tosses such a thought aside. 

When he comes across a small, nice-looking park, Draco stops and takes a rest on one of the benches. He knows he has developed a couple blisters on his second to last toe on either foot, and he’s been walking weird to accommodate them. 

The air is still relatively cool, but the sun is higher now and has been beating down on him since he left the bus station, making him hot and sweaty and creating gross sweat stains under each arm of the long-sleeved shirt. The seam of his trousers, which Potter called ‘jeans’, have been creating an irritating friction against his inner thighs, rubbing the skin raw. 

Draco wants to throw the annoying Muggle clothes away and don his robes, but he left them at Potter’s house and he’s certainly not going back to get them. They’re easy enough to replace, once he can get to the Manor. 

The park he’s stopped in has a play area for children, and several are present there with parents off to the side, chatting and watching them. Draco intentionally picked a spot away from the parents, as the last thing he is interested in is interacting with any more damn Muggles. 

Draco takes his shoes off and rubs at his aching feet. His mouth is terribly dry from all the walking, so now he is thirsty and hungry and in pain. He tries to ignore the sensations, telling himself that it’s only temporary. 

He looks around and then watches the Muggle children climb and run and play with each other around the playground. It reminds him of Pansy and him when they were that age, chasing each other around the Manor grounds. He thinks of all the games they used to invent and the sort of trouble they would get in together, how they always tried to blame it on the other or on one of the house elves.

For a while Draco gets lost in his memories, rubbing his feet and enjoying the cool shade of the trees and the chirping of birds in the park. What draws him out of his bout of nostalgia is a little girl walking up to him, stopping about two feet away and staring at him.

She looks to be around four years old with brown hair and olive skin, and, most importantly, is holding a bag of little orange crackers, slowly eating them one by one as she stares up at Draco with big, brown eyes. 

Draco’s stomach grumbles as he watches her hand slowly move up and down from the bag to her mouth, crunching loudly on the crackers. 

“Hello,” Draco says and tries to smile pleasantly, already thinking that if he can talk Dark wizards into giving him the most sensitive information of their operations, he can surely talk a child into giving him some food. 

“Hi,” she says with a mouthful of food. 

Draco suppresses the urge to grimace. He’s never much liked children, always thought of them as disgusting little monsters. There had been a time when he thought that a child might not be so bad if it were his, but that time has long since passed. Draco is childless and married to his work and he prefers it that way. 

“Are you having a fun day at the park?” Draco asks, and the girl nods. “Have you met any new friends?” She shakes her head. “Well, you’ve met me now, haven’t you? My name is Draco. What’s yours?” 

Her expression turns somewhat shy at this, but she answers, “Sarah.” She stuffs another cracker into her mouth and chews on it. Draco jealously watches her jaw moving. 

“It’s lovely to meet you Sarah,” Draco continues, forcing himself to relax and keep smiling. “What have you got there?”

“Crackers.” She sticks another one in her mouth, crunching loudly and open-mouthed on it.

“I don’t think I’ve had those sort of crackers before, they look good. Are they good?” She nods. “Do you think I could try one? You would be the best friend ever if you shared with me.”

Sarah looks down at her bag of crackers, seeming to think about this, then nods and pulls a single cracker out of the bag with saliva-covered fingers and places it delicately in Draco’s outstretched hand. 

“Thank you so much, Sarah. I think we’re going to be fast friends,” he says and then shoves the cracker into his mouth, releasing a small, relieved sigh and chewing gratefully on the miniscule piece of food.

It’s barely enough to chew on, let alone staunch his hunger, and Draco is already devising how to get more even before he’s swallowed.

“That was delicious, better than the crackers I have at my home!” Draco enthuses, making the little girl giggle. “Did your mother make those for you?”

Sarah shakes her head and says, “She bought them at the shop.”

“Well, I’ll have to figure out exactly which one so I can get some myself, won’t I?” Draco asks in a friendly tone and Sarah smiles and nods. 

“Oh! But you know what? I am utterly hopeless when it comes to shopping in the supermarkets, I get lost in all those aisles!” Draco exclaims and gestures helplessly in a silly, melodramatic sort of way that makes Sarah laugh.

Draco digs his leather pouch out of his pocket and digs around in it, once more finding and pulling out his coin purse.

“But maybe you could help me. Maybe, if I had your crackers to show the attendant, they could help me find them,” Draco says and leans forward to whisper conspiratorially, “If you let me have your crackers, I will give you a magic coin.”

Her eyes go wide and she watches as Draco reaches into his coin purse and pulls out a bronze knut with a flourish. He holds the knut out to her at her eye level, shiny and glinting in a spot of sunlight coming through the trees. 

“It’s magic?” she asks reverently, looking at the coin brightly and then starting to reach for it. 

“It is,” Draco assures her and pulls his hand back so she can’t take it yet. “It’s a magic wishing coin called a ‘knut’ and it’s very special, but I would gladly give it to you for those delicious crackers of yours.”

Sarah nods quickly and holds her bag of crackers up to Draco.

“Sarah!” Right as they’re both reaching to make the exchange, a voice calls out for the girl and she stops and looks toward the direction of the voice.

Draco barely contains an irritated growl from coming out and he tucks the coin into his palm, straightening and regarding the child’s mother as she comes jogging over to them. 

“Sarah, what are you doing over here?” she asks as she picks the little girl up and sets her on her hip. 

“I was making a friend!” Sarah says. “His name is Draco and I was gonna share my crackers with him!”

“That’s very sweet, honey,” she says and looks down at Draco, giving him a tight smile. “Sorry if she bothered you.”

“Not at all,” Draco says, forcing a smile, though he’s screaming on the inside. All that work for nothing. Draco’s still hungry and empty-handed. 

“Come on, I think it’s time to get home,” the mother says and turns, starting to walk away.

“But, mum!” Sarah complains. “He was gonna give me a magic knut!”

The woman looks back sharply, giving Draco a horrified look, and then starts walking away faster.

Draco huffs out his annoyance and leans back on the bench, petulantly thinking how a small, half-eaten bag of crackers wouldn’t have sated his hunger anyway. Plus, he’s more thirsty now than he was before from the dry, salty texture of the cracker. He irritably pushes his feet back into his shoes and ties the laces.

When he feels the unnerving sensation of having eyes on him, Draco glances over to see Sarah’s mother and a few other parents gathered, talking with each other and casting furtive glances his way. 

Draco turns away and ignores them. He feels like a snake being watched and tittered about by a flock of angry birds. Let them squawk all they like, they’re just a few silly Muggles. Draco is the wizard here, he’s the apex predator, and he easily dismisses them as a threat. Draco is tired and sore and hungry and he’s not giving up his bench until he has formulated a new plan to get him out of this town. 

Barely ten minutes later, Draco is still resting and now contemplating what ‘hitchhiking’ means when a new Muggle walks up to him. 

“Good day,” she greets Draco. She’s wearing a uniform and after a second Draco recognises it from seeing it on the telly. She must be a Muggle police woman. 

She settles her hands on her belt and looks Draco up and down, and it makes Draco aware of how he must look. He’s wearing an ill-fitting, sweat stained shirt and his hair must be a mess, clumped in places from sweat and windblown on top. Draco self-consciously puts a hand through his hair. 

“Good day,” Draco greets her in return. 

“How are you doing?” she asks conversationally, and Draco squints, wondering if this is how Muggle police interact with everyone or if she’s acting friendly to get something out of him.

“I’m doing well, thank you,” Draco answers politely, if a bit stiffly.

“My name is Claire. Can I ask you your name?” she continues. Her tone is friendly but purposeful, carrying the authority of her position.

“Draco,” he answers, then adds, “Draco Malfoy.”

She pauses, giving him a considering look, but accepts his answer with a small nod. “Okay, do you mind if I call you Draco?”

“By all means,” Draco says and waves a hand graciously.

“Are you here with your children today, Draco?” 

“No,” he says with a short shake of his head. “I don’t have children.”

“Okay, so if you’ve got no children, may I ask you what you’re doing hanging about here?” she asks, and though her tone is still polite, it’s starting to grate on Draco’s nerves to be questioned by a Muggle like this.

“I am sitting here, on a bench, enjoying the shade and resting my feet,” Draco says tersely. “Am I not allowed to sit on a bench, then? Is that not their purpose, or do Muggles like to build things never to be used? I can’t quite tell, you build so many strange things that don’t make any bloody sense to me.”

“Ah, okay,” she says and smiles, but it’s not a kind one. “You’re being funny with me then?”

“Well, I do think that I can be rather funny at times, though I wasn’t trying to be just then.”

Claire squints at Draco in an unfriendly, assessing sort of way, and then decides to drop all pretence of being there to have a pleasant conversation. “We received a complaint about a strange man in the park, talking to the children, offering them things.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up and his stomach drops when he realises the implications of what she’s saying. It hadn’t even occurred to him what he might look like to a protective parent, he was just hungry and minding his own business. 

Oh, Merlin. Draco could smack himself when he realises that he had even referred to himself as a predator when he was thinking about the people in this park. But of course he didn’t mean it like _that._ Gods, no! It’s repulsive to even think of. 

“No!” Draco exclaims and jumps to his feet, waving his hands to emphasise his denial. “No, no, no!”

“Sir,” the officer says quickly, putting one hand on something on her belt and holding the other up in a halting gesture. “Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down.”

“Yes, of course,” Draco says slower, forcing himself to take a breath. He holds his hands up around waist-height in a placating motion. “I understand the concern, but I assure you that I hold no ill intentions toward the children or you or anyone here. I’ve been walking a lot today and I merely sat down to rest my feet. I mean, the child came up to me, I didn’t go out of my way to engage her. She had crackers and—”

The police woman’s expression narrows when Draco starts to get defensive, and he quickly changes tactics. 

“Look, Claire, perhaps you can help me. I’m trying to find a way out of town. I’d like to get to Wiltshire but the brat working for your bus system wouldn’t give me a pass. Can you tell me how to get transit out of here? A girl this morning mentioned that I could hitchhike.”

The officer’s stance and expression has relaxed somewhat, in that she doesn’t look like she’s about to attack Draco, but she’s still watching him suspiciously. “Trying to leave town?” Draco nods. “What’s in Wiltshire?”

“My—my home,” Draco says, the words catching in his throat. He can’t remember the last time he slept in his own bed, but that doesn’t matter right now.

“And where in town have you been staying?” she asks, her tone now straightforward and authoritative, no longer containing any hint of friendliness.

“I—with…” Draco stutters and then stops, trying to figure out how to explain his situation adequately and lands on, “A roommate. But we’ve since parted and I’d like to be on my way, as soon as possible, if you could—”

“Can you tell me the address of where you’ve been staying?” she interrupts him. 

Draco sighs, putting a hand on his forehead and then running it back over his hair. “No.” Even if he knew the address he wouldn’t give it to her. He doesn’t want to be taken back there and he certainly doesn’t want Potter finding out about the utterly embarrassing situation he’s gotten himself into.

“Can I see your ID, please?” Claire asks. 

Merlin, this is going all wrong. Draco closes his eyes and turns his face skyward, putting his hands on his hips. He forces himself to count to five and tell himself that he is not going to lose his cool. He’s going to politely end this conversation and walk away.

He looks back down to the police woman. “I’m sorry, but no,” he says in the most polite, apologetic tone he can muster. “I apologise for whatever upset I’ve caused to the children and their parents. I’m just trying to find a way out of town, if you can’t help me with that then I’ll be on my way.” 

Draco turns to leave, but the officer steps in front of him, holding up a hand to stop him. “Your ID, sir,” she says in a firmer voice.

“I don’t have one,” Draco grits out, wishing desperately that he could Confund the Muggle and be on his way, but no, of course his luck is such that he can’t even do that much. “I sincerely doubt that I’ve broken any of your laws by sitting on a bench, so if you’re quite finished—”

“I’m going to ask you to come with me, sir,” she tells him with one hand reaching for Draco and the other taking something from her belt.

“No!” Draco objects, frustrated and taking a step back away from her. He sees a glint of metal in her hand, and when he recognises the object as manacles, he recoils. “I haven’t done anything!”

“Then you’ve nothing to be worried about. We’ll just have a nice talk at the station and you’ll be free to go after,” she assures him, but she reaches for him again and Draco stumbles back.

“Don’t resist, we’re just going to have a talk,” her tone goes up aggressively as she lunges for Draco, so of course that’s exactly what he does. 

When she grabs his wrist and tries to put the manacle on it, Draco twists away and ends up elbowing her in the face. The blow stuns her for less than a second, and then she tackles him to the ground, wrangling him onto a position on his stomach with a practiced ease Draco is not at all expecting. 

Draco’s heart is thumping hard in his ears, pushing adrenaline through his system and all he can think is that he can’t be caught, he can’t go to jail. She has his right hand twisted behind his back, but his left is still free. He engages his forearm holster and gets his wand in hand, but before he can get a spell off the officer grabs his wrist, pulling on it and slamming it against the ground to try and get Draco to release his wand. 

Draco grips with everything he’s got, unwilling to let his last form of defence go. The office releases his right hand so she can grab his wand, trying with both hands to get it from him. They both struggle, pulling and clinging onto it until there is a clear, distinct snap. 

A cold flash goes through his body when he realises what happened, and then Draco is screaming in rage.

He bucks with a newfound strength and Draco can feel the police woman’s desperation as she tries to grab his arms and get him back under control. Draco bites down on her exposed forearm and sinks his teeth as far as they’ll go. 

She shrieks in pain and her grip loosens enough that Draco can pull his arm free and blindly throw an elbow back into her face. He feels it connect, feels how her body jerks back off his, and while she’s momentarily stunned, Draco scrambles forward, then turns over and kicks at her, nailing her right in the nose. 

Claire falls back, makes a noise somewhere between a yelp and grunt and puts her hands over her nose, and Draco uses the opportunity to quickly scoot out of her reach and get on his feet.

Over her hands which are covering half her face, the police woman looks up at him and starts to reach for something and Draco doesn’t hesitate, he turns and he runs as fast as he can. He can hear shouting behind him, but he ignores it and pumps his legs with everything he has. 

His wand is still in his hand, half of it dangling and swinging uselessly with the motion of his arms as he races out of the park and onto the street. One of the Muggle cars comes close to hitting him and makes a startling loud noise that sends a jolt through his heart which is already jackrabbiting in his chest. 

Draco has no idea where he is or where he’s going, he just runs like he’s got a manticore on his tail. He makes random turns occasionally and he doesn’t stop until he’s on the brink of collapse. 

Draco finds himself on a small road near a row of houses and an open field. He ducks behind a long hedge that runs the edge of the field and he crumples, falling down onto his hands and knees, then rolling over onto his back. 

He’s breathing hard, mouth hanging open as he tries to suck in enough oxygen with each laboured breath. His lungs are burning and there are black spots in his vision which he tries to blink away. 

Draco closes his eyes tightly, not able to do much more than lie there and pant and hope he doesn’t puke or pass out.

A long, indeterminate time later, when the gross feeling of laying in the dirt outweighs Draco’s desire to never move again, Draco forces himself to sit up. He’s still breathing heavily, though not as badly, and he brushes a hand over his hair and neck, trying to divest himself of any dirt or leaves or, Merlin forbid, insects that might be on him. His skin feels starts to feel itchy with the thought of them crawling over him and he redoubles his efforts to brush himself off. 

His shirt is soaked with sweat, and where before it had been cooling him during his run, now that he’s no longer moving his temperature has dropped significantly, and the wet fabric sticking to his skin only serves to drop his core further, sending a deep chill down to his bones.

Draco takes a deep, steadying breath, then looks around the area he’s found himself in. It’s quiet, nobody in the field or within his sight and he’s only heard the occasional car pass by since he collapsed here. 

When Draco looks down at his left hand, he finds that his wand is still clutched in it, almost completely forgotten before that point and only still in his grip through the pure, deep-seated instinct to never, ever lose his wand.

The beautiful acacia wood, which gleams a nearly iridescent bronze when the wavy grain catches the sunlight, is now splintered and broken in half, the two pieces only held together by the dragon heartstring core. 

Draco remembers how he had to go to a wandmaker in Egypt to get a new one, how Ollivander’s stayed closed for the first few years after the war and how, even if he had been open for business, Draco never could have summoned the gumption to go down to Ollivander’s shop, look him in the eye, and ask for a new wand. 

He remembers how frustrated he’d been with the wand, how he’d tried to return it initially, but the wandmaker had merely insisted that the wand had chosen him and if he wanted the wand to work for him he had to choose it in return. 

Draco had been so torn up after the war, so unsure about his future. Everything he had been told from the day he was born had been turned on its head, and he couldn’t trust anyone or anything. 

His whole family had gone on trial, and for those first few years after the war when his father was in Azkaban, his mother and he were on house arrest, when the Ministry was threatening to take away their home and their fortune, when mobs of people would come to the gate and throw rocks and food and try to break in, every one of those days felt like he was like running on quicksand. Like if he relaxed for even a moment the ground beneath him would suck him down into an inevitable, grisly death.

When his sentence had ended and Draco was able to leave the country to seek a new wand so he wouldn’t have to share his mother’s anymore, he thought it would be a relief. He thought he could relax in knowing he would have a wand on hand all the time, that if anyone ever succeeded in breaking into the Manor and attacking them, Draco and his mother could both defend themselves. 

What happened instead was that Draco ended up with a wand which was temperamental at best and completely unresponsive at worst. At first Draco hated it. He cursed the wandmaker’s skills and his cryptic advice on how to handle it. He ranted and raged and ultimately was still left with an unruly wand to deal with. 

In time Draco learned how to handle the wand, learned how to get it to respond reliably. It wasn’t until years later, after Draco had suffered through the losses of his mother’s murder in a back alley of Diagon and his father’s slow death in Azkaban, after he had stopped hiding in the Manor and begun his journey to find where he could fit in this new uncertain world, after he had had to challenge every one of his deeply ingrained beliefs and come up with a different answer, that’s when his wand finally showed him its true power. 

The subtle, aloof wand wasn’t one for big, showy spells. Its power wasn’t in sparks or showmanship, it was in the way that it melded with and channelled Draco’s magic so precisely, the way it responded to Draco’s needs reliably after he had bonded with it. But what Draco had truly treasured it for wasn’t its highly tuned power or adaptability, but its loyalty. 

Three weeks into Draco’s second undercover assignment, one of the Dark wizards caught him sending a message to Ron and a scuffle had ensued. They’d both lost their wands in the fight, and at one point the wizard had managed to snatch up Draco’s wand from the ground, pointed it right at his heart and cast an Avada Kedavra. 

Draco knew that was it. He knew there was no escape and was convinced that that was to be his end. Yet there was no familiar flash of green light, no pain, and no darkness to follow. 

The wizard looked as stunned as Draco felt, and when he made the mistake of looking away from Draco to give the wand in his hand a bewildered look, Draco had leapt to his feet and knocked him out with one swift, decisive punch to the face. 

At first Draco had worried that his wand had broken in the altercation, that after all the time and effort spent winning its loyalty, he would have to replace it, but when he picked it up there was no visible damage, and when he cast an experimental spell it responded perfectly. His beautiful, stubborn, reticent wand had merely refused to cast for the other wizard and in doing so had saved Draco’s life. 

From that day on Draco had never doubted his wand and his wand had never faltered on any spell he asked of it.

Out of curiosity, Draco had asked his mother and Pansy to try to use his wand. It didn’t work for either of them and Draco had felt a strong sense of smug pride in knowing that he had such complete loyalty from it. 

Draco had had a lot of time without a wand after the war to stew over the way Potter had stolen his wand and how easily it had switched loyalties. It was an odd sort of betrayal to experience, and the first time he had ever assigned emotions or sentience to an object.

Draco has read the biography, he knows the important role his wand played in bringing down the Dark Lord, and he is grateful for that, for whatever small aid Draco had given in his ultimate destruction, but still, its shifting alliance had stung. 

It had made the absolute loyalty of his new wand that much more significant to Draco. 

But now, now that is done.

Now his beautiful, loyal, shrewd wand is broken in half. Lifeless, useless, irreparable. 

And Draco breaks down. 

He’s not proud of it, and he can hear his father’s words echoing in his head, telling him that Malfoys don’t cry. Crying is a sign of weakness and Malfoys should never show weakness, but he can’t stop the flow of tears from his eyes. 

The last time Draco cried was seventeen years ago when his mother was killed. He never expected the next thing he would cry over would be his wand, but here he is. 

All it took was an instant, and in that instant his last line of defence, the one single thing he could count on in his life and in this bleakest of moments, was gone. 

Now Draco is completely alone.

Draco can’t help thinking about what an utterly idiotic and senseless way it is for his wand to break—over a stupid scuffle with a stupid Muggle in this stupid town all because stupid Potter had to open his stupid mouth.

Slowly Draco sobs die down to whimpers, and then to sniffling and wiping the tear tracks off his face. He feels wrung out, emptied in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. 

Draco hurts all over. His feet hurt, and his calves hurt, and his thighs hurt. His ankles, knees and hips ache. His lungs are still burning, and his eyes feel hot and dry. He has a headache from crying and dehydration, and his stomach keeps twisting and churning on itself in hunger and nausea. 

Just as Draco is thinking how this is already one of the worst days of his life, he feels a drop of water land on his ear, and he looks up to find the sky grey and pregnant with Draco’s defeat. 

The wind picks up right as a downpour starts in earnest, and the hedge Draco’s been hiding under helps to cut some of it, but is ultimately not adequate shelter. His shirt is long sleeved but cotton, it’s not dried at all in the time Draco’s been sitting here and is now readily soaking up every drop of rain, ensuring Draco a cold, wet existence. 

He knows that it’s the afternoon now, well on its way to evening. If the clouds don’t clear before the sun sets Draco will have no way of drying his clothes and getting warm again before the chill of Spring settles into the night. He could well die of exposure. 

What a stupid, senseless way for a _wizard_ to die. And yes, Draco wants to laugh at how fitting it would be—a meaningless death for his meaningless life.

Draco’s grip tightens on the broken wand still clutched in his hand, and he presses his knuckles to his eyes, wanting to scream and howl out the utter humiliation and impotent rage filling his veins, swelling in his chest and pushing at his skull, demanding to be expressed, to be heard, to be known. 

Draco wants to hurt someone. He wants to hurt the Muggle who broke his wand. He wants to hurt the idiot parents who called the police on him. He wants to hurt the teenager who wouldn’t give him a bus pass. He wants to hurt Potter for daring to make assumptions about his life. He wants to hurt this whole town if he could—shatter the buildings, crack open the earth, set fire to their fields. 

Draco wants...Draco wants to hurt himself. 

He knows that all of this is his own fault. He knows that if he hadn’t egged Potter on that Potter would have let the issue drop without pushing him. He knows that if he hadn’t spent the last two weeks berating Potter with all of Potter’s issues maybe Potter wouldn’t have singled out Draco’s own. 

If he had been big enough to just admit that Potter was right, none of this would have happened. Draco would be in a warm house, eating a warm meal, safe and dry and making a joke about whatever show is on the television, drawing out one of those almost-smiles from Potter. 

But he didn’t, because the fact that Potter had been able to see so easily into Draco’s mind, that he was able to cut through all his walls right to the heart of Draco’s most deep-seated issue, terrified him.

What Draco is coming to realise now is that as terrifying as it is for Potter to look behind the mask, the prospect of losing his life is worse. If Damian’s men were to find him now, Draco would be completely defenceless. If Roberts wanted to find Draco and get back at him for his double-cross, Draco wouldn’t be able to stop him. Hell, even if Muggles wanted a piece of him they could probably get it. 

A shiver of cold fear runs down Draco’s spine as the weight of his fragile situation settles into his awareness. As hopeless as his situation feels, as tired and cold and hurt as he is, and as despondent as he feels from losing his wand, that small part of Draco that never gives up, that doesn’t want to die, that can’t let this be how he ends, is what moves him into action.

With what strength that gives him, Draco pushes himself to standing. He delicately, lovingly, puts the broken pieces of his wand into his pouch and closes it tightly. He puts the pouch back into the large front pocket of his jeans, and then turns his face up to the storm and opens his mouth. He doesn’t get near enough water to do anything for the dehydration but is at least able to wet his cracked lips and parched mouth. 

Draco only has a vague sense of where he is in relation to the main street of this town, and no idea of where he is in relation to Potter’s house. If he can find his way back to the diner he found this morning he thinks he can find his way back to Potter’s, and at this point Potter is the only viable option left to him. 

The overcast sky dims the sunlight, but if Draco’s going to do anything he needs to do it before the light is gone completely, and by his estimation he only has a couple hours of daylight left. 

With a pained grunt Draco starts moving. He’s limping from aches in his muscles and joints, and from trying to keep pressure off the sensitive stinging pain of popped blisters along his toes, but he digs deep and forces himself to keep going, one step at a time. 

Progress is slow, made even slower by the routes Draco takes, staying off the pavement and away from streets as much as possible. There aren’t many people walking by foot due to the weather and Draco knows he sticks out. 

There is a small part of Draco that had thought Potter would come after him, that despite whatever events had happened to turn Potter into what he is now, underneath it all he was still the same boy who cared even when he shouldn’t, that saved people who didn’t deserve it. 

Draco imagines turning a corner and bumping into Potter, seeing relief in his eyes at finding Draco whole and alive. He imagines Potter reaching for him to sweep him back to the warmth and safety of his home. He can still remember the feel of Potter’s hand gripping his, strong even back then as it pulled him from fire and smoke and certain death. 

Draco remembers what it feels like to be saved by Potter. He’s never forgotten it, he never could. He wishes for it now, hopes for it with every fibre of his being. But that isn’t who Potter is any more. Potter is not a hero, and Draco is not a damsel in distress.

Okay, so he may be in a bit of distress, but Draco is no one’s damsel. He may not be ripped like Potter, he may not be able to bench press his own weight, but Draco is strong in other ways. He is clever and resilient and resourceful, and he is more than capable of saving himself. 

For a long time the streets and the houses all look the same to Draco. He thinks he might recognise one, but then as he keeps going nothing else seems familiar. Eventually darkness falls, the rain never lets up, and Draco is still cautiously wandering the streets trying to find his way. 

The more time goes by, the more Draco’s fear increases. Every shadow, every dark corner turns menacing, turns into a threat—an enemy waiting to jump out and attack him. The longer the night drags on, the darker Draco’s thoughts become. 

When he’s ready to throw in the towel, he forces himself to keep moving, to follow the line of buildings and streets becoming denser. When he’s ready to lie down and give up, Draco keeps his feet moving through force of will and the desire for shelter. 

It’s when Draco thinks he can’t take another step, when he’s considering finding a shed or a garage to hunker down in and hope for the best, that he recognises where he is. Draco sees a building with a bright red awning that he remembers seeing from the park, and from there he is able to orient himself. 

He finds the bench he had rested on, he knows which street he had come down from the bus station and therefore knows which street to follow to get back to the main road and the diner where he had originally gotten directions from. 

It’s slow going, every step is painful, and Draco stops and hides behind hedges and cars when he sees a vehicle coming or gets an uneasy feeling that he’s being watched. He attacked a Muggle police woman, and he’s certain that they’ll still be looking for him. He doesn’t want to take any more chances, and as bad of a condition as he is in, Draco forces himself to take it slow and play it smart. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, he just has to make it there. 

By the time he makes it back to the main street, most of the shops are closed and the only light is from street lamps and signs. If the moon is out it’s hidden behind the storm which is raging harder than ever. A sharp wind cuts straight through Draco’s drenched clothes, sending the torrential rain slicing through the air in diagonal sheets, making it that much harder to find respite.

From the diner, Draco tries to retrace the path he had taken from Potter’s house. It all looks a bit different in the dark and in the rain, and he takes a turn too early and goes down the wrong street for a while before realising it and having to backtrack. 

Eventually, after a couple more wrong turns, things become more familiar. When the houses start to thin out, Draco knows he’s on the right road. He’s been feeling mildly dizzy and lightheaded for a while now, which makes it even harder to push forward, but he does it.

Draco hasn’t seen a car in a while, but he also doesn’t have the light from regular street lamps to aid him. Every shadow that moves sets his heart racing and has him freezing in place, watching and listening carefully for danger.

When Potter’s house comes into view, Draco has no idea what time it is, but he knows it must be well into the night. Potter’s sure to have gone to sleep by now, except one of the garage doors is left open and there’s a light on inside.

Draco stops dead in his tracks when he sees the light. He’s so close, so close to relief and rest and safety, but seeing that light on makes Draco’s pride rear its ugly head once more. 

Potter always turns off the lights, closes and locks all the doors before he goes to bed. The only reason he would have left a light on is because he was expecting this. He was expecting Draco to fail. He was expecting him to come crawling back.

Draco’s fingers curl up into fists and he grits his teeth. The anger swells inside his chest, and it almost has him turning on his heel and leaving right then. 

Reason returns after a few concentrated breaths and talking himself down.

He reminds himself that he was wrong—he needs Potter. 

The garage is empty when Draco walks into it; he’s not sure what he expected. Maybe leaving the door open and the light on was the minimal amount of effort Potter was willing to put in. He didn’t seem to care whether Draco was there or not, and he’s probably gone to bed already, unconcerned for Draco’s wellbeing and unwilling to deviate from his routine.

Draco pushes the button he knows will close the garage door behind him, then heads through the garage and into the living room. He flips off the light in the garage before stepping all the way into the living room, releasing a sharp, relieved exhale at the warmth of the home. 

Movement in the corner of his eye makes Draco’s heart jump, and he jerks his head toward it. There is barely any light in the room, the only source of it from the faint, muted light of a street lamp coming in through the curtains. It catches and glints on the form shifting up from an armchair across the room. 

For one horrifying second Draco sees Nagini uncoiling from chair—large and menacing, smooth scales shining with what little light there is. 

But no, Draco’s eyes adjust to the darkness and he sees that it’s Potter, the light from the windows reflected in his glasses as he stands and faces Draco. 

In the dark of the room Draco can’t make out much more than the shape of his large form, a powerful and silent presence filling the space and making Draco’s heart speed with anticipation.

The moment seems to stretch on and on, the only sound that of Draco’s drenched clothes drip, drip, dripping water onto the small hardwood section of the threshold. 

Potter shifts minutely in his stance. It’s too dark to see his eyes or make out any expression on his face, but the movement draws Draco’s eyes down. He sees the shape of a wand held in Potter’s hand, and Draco sucks in a breath and holds it. 

Draco wants to break the silence, he wants to say so many things. He wants to curse Potter, he wants to tell him to just finish him off, he wants to apologise, but he can’t get the words past the lump in his throat.

After what feels like an age but is more likely less than a minute, Potter turns away from Draco and goes upstairs. 

Draco exhales a shaky breath and tells himself he’s not going to break down again. 

Though no words were exchanged, Draco knows that Potter is inviting him to stay. Much as he wants to deny it, he gets the sense that Potter was sat here all night waiting for Draco to return, and waiting for trouble to follow. Possibly he was even contemplating leaving his self-imposed confinement to go after him.

Draco doesn’t know what to think of that, and his head is already a jumbled mess of anger and humiliation, relief and affection, pain and grief.

Instead, he focuses on his more immediate needs and goes into the kitchen. He fills a glass of water and chugs it, knowing you’re not supposed to drink too much at once, but he’s so damn thirsty he doesn’t care. He raids the fridge for yoghurt, bread and cheese, and he eats and drinks until he feels nearly sick with it. 

He does almost chunder at one point, but managed to keep the food and water down.

Now that he’s in a safe place, his pain feels somehow more acute and Draco has to press his lips together to keep from whimpering as he slowly ascends the staircase, one pained step at a time. 

Draco strips off his wet clothes, throws the covers back, and drops onto the bed in pure relief. With his last bit of energy, he pulls his kit from his pocket, digs his hand around in it, then carefully pulls out his broken wand. He lays in on the nightstand and stares at it. 

As tired as he is, it takes him a while before he can sleep. He’s been on edge for so long, scared and stripped raw, every nerve a livewire. The day’s events play through Draco’s mind over and over until exhaustion sets in and he passes out.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco sleeps for an eon. Or it feels like he does, anyway. He sleeps so long that he wakes up tired. 

Physically, Draco feels worse today than he did yesterday. His entire body is sore and aching from what he put it through, and he spends the first hour after waking up lying in bed, trying not to move a muscle and wishing it were all a bad dream.

Eventually, certain needs win out and Draco pulls himself out of the soft, warm bed and into the shower. He washes the stink of the previous day from him, then pulls on a clean set of clothes. Instead of Potter’s clothes, Draco puts on his robes. It feels right to do so, comforting and familiar. And if Potter’s going to kick him out today, Draco would rather leave wearing his own clothes.

Draco goes to the kitchen and finds a cup of tea and a plate filled with bangers, beans and eggs seemingly waiting for him underneath a Stasis charm. He furrows his brow at the meal, not exactly sure what to think of it. Potter’s never gone out of the way to feed him like this.

In truth, Draco had been ready to go back to toast for breakfast, he was even excited by the prospect because it’s _food,_ and Draco has found a certain appreciation for it since going without.

Maybe Potter feels sorry for him. Draco feels a familiar stirring of anger at the thought, but he takes a steadying breath and pushes the feeling down. Most likely Potter feels sorry for being an arsehole, and that is the sort of breakfast Draco can get behind. 

Draco drinks the tea and eats the food, nearly moaning from how good it tastes after eating next to nothing the day before. 

A glance at the clock on the stove tells Draco that he has slept in to almost one in the afternoon. Potter’s sure to be working in his garage.

After he’s finished, Draco rinses the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher the way Potter had shown him to initially, before Draco stopped doing it to annoy him. 

Draco looks at the door to the garage, knowing Potter will be in there. He straightens his back and forces himself not to limp and not to roll his feet to keep weight off the front of his foot where the ball and toes are raw and blistered. He tries to move as normally as possible as he goes through the door and out into the garage, not wanting to make his pain known to Potter. 

Draco doesn’t see Potter initially, he’s not kneeling in front of any of the bikes like he normally is, instead Draco spots him sitting in his office with a client. Potter is already watching Draco through the glass wall, but his gaze drops almost as soon as Draco catches it.

The low murmur of conversation travels through the open space as Potter speaks with his client, showing him some papers. He can’t hear what they’re saying distinctly, only the soft rise and fall of their voices. Draco turns his attention away from them, walking delicately around the garage, brushing his fingers over one of the motorbikes sitting up in its stand. 

He finds that his chair is where he left it, against the wall near Potter’s workout equipment, and the book he’d been reading is sat on it, like it always is, except Draco had thrown it before he left. 

It’s not even been a whole two days and Draco’s not sure why he expected everything to be different. Their argument somehow feels like it happened ages ago. 

Draco picks up the worn, soft-bound copy of Don Quixote and thumbs across the block of pages. He opens it and finds his bookmark still in place, one he’d found stuffed in another one of Potter’s books. It’s a flat rectangle, printed with a frilly border on the inside and a picture of an open book with butterflies flying out of its pages. ‘Reading is fun!’ it proclaims in big, bold letters, and underneath that has the name of a library. 

Draco gingerly sits down on the chair and continues reading where he left off while he waits for Potter to finish with his client. His eyes move over the same three paragraphs again and again, unable to find meaning in them because he can’t focus. 

Soon enough, Potter walks out of his office, followed by his customer, a white man with light brown hair and blue eyes. He looks younger, in his late twenties or early thirties, Draco guesses. When the Muggle’s eyes land on him, Draco freezes. 

Draco remembers the way the Muggle parents had stared and whispered, how the police woman had tackled him to the ground and tried to shackle him, and how they’d be sure to arrest him now if they knew where he was. 

A crease forms on the Muggle’s forehead as he looks down at Draco. The way he pauses, the way his brows come together and his mouth tilts down as he assesses Draco, sends Draco’s heart speeding. He can feel his pulse beating in his neck and hear the thumping of it in his ears. 

Draco is fairly certain that Potter would come to his aid if he were attacked by a wizard, but would he if it were a Muggle? He honestly doesn’t know. Before Draco can even begin to think of how to address such a situation, the moment is over and the Muggle is walking away from him. 

Draco’s eyes dart over to Potter and again catches his gaze. Potter is looking at him with a similar expression as the Muggle’s, brows drawn and mouth slightly downturned. Draco tries to force his body to relax, his face feels hot and he knows it likes to turn a splotchy, ugly red when he gets worked up like this. 

Potter shifts his attention away from Draco to roll one of the bikes down off its stand. 

“Is there a Con in town?” he can hear the Muggle ask Potter. Draco’s not sure what that is, but he gets the sense that the comment has something to do with him.

“No,” Potter answers flatly, and the Muggle shoots another curious look over at Draco. 

Draco gets it then. The Muggle isn’t looking at him oddly because of what happened yesterday, it’s because of his robes. He sighs internally and admonishes himself for being so skittish. 

“Why don’t you pull your trailer up and we’ll get these loaded,” Potter suggests and the Muggle nods and walks away. 

Potter moves the first bike to the front of the garage, then gets a second one which hadn’t been on one of the repair stands but sat along the wall in a row with a few other motorbikes. 

Both of the bikes seem smaller to Draco than the others, thinner in a way. Their handlebars aren’t as large, they sit higher over their wheels and have smaller bodies than the rest. They are also both splattered with mud, and Draco wonders why Potter wouldn’t clean them before returning them to his client.

Draco watches Potter directing the Muggle as he backs his car into the drive and parks. The Muggle gets out of the vehicle and he and Potter load the bikes onto a small trailer hooked to the car. The trailer sits outside the garage door and Draco watches Potter roll one of the bikes out onto it in interest. He is only just beyond the garage, but it’s the farthest Draco has seen Potter step outside the boundaries of the house. 

Once the bikes are hooked in, the Muggle shakes Potter’s hand and leaves.

Now that they’re alone, Draco’s stomach starts to feel fluttery with nerves and he catches himself biting down on his bottom lip. He stops before Potter can turn and see him doing it. 

Potter turns and looks at Draco. He wipes his hands on himself, leaving fresh streaks of black on the thighs of his blue coveralls. Draco can hear the slow breath Potter releases before he stuffs his hands in his pockets and crosses the distance between them in a few easy steps. They both know that they need to talk about what happened. 

Draco doesn’t like the idea of Potter looming over him for the conversation they are about to have, so he puts his bookmark in place, stands up, and sets his book on the chair. 

Potter’s eyes are jumping between Draco’s, again making him look like he’s trying to read Draco like a line of composition. 

For a moment neither of them speak, and then when they do it’s at the same time. 

“I’m sorry—” they both start to say and break off.

They look at each other for a second, waiting for the other speak. 

Potter recovers first. “I’m sorry. For what I said. For pushing you the way I did,” he says sincerely if a bit haltingly.

Draco releases a small sigh through his nose and shakes his head. “No, I—I’m sorry. I also said some— _have_ been saying some fairly awful things to you since I got here. You’ve been kind enough to give me shelter, and food, and, hell, even the clothes off your back. I’ve been—I’ve been a right git. And,” Draco takes a breath and has to look away from Potter to get the words out, “you were right.”

His pride is a hard pill to swallow, but like he said, Draco is forty-two bloody years old. He is capable of controlling his emotions and acting like an adult. There’s just something about Potter that brings out the worst in him, that makes him want to act out.

Potter nods either in acceptance or agreement, or perhaps both. 

The moment stretches on, and Potter’s eyes drop to Draco’s robes. They travel up and down the length of them before meeting Draco’s gaze again. “Are you going to stay?” 

The question is quiet and his tone is softer than what Draco would expect. It surprises him that Potter would ask, and Draco hesitates before asking in return, “Do you want me to stay?”

Potter blinks slowly and answers, “Stay as long as you like.”

Draco frowns a little at the response. “That’s not an answer.”

“Neither was yours,” Potter calmly tosses back at him, his tone seems almost amused. 

Draco narrows his eyes, searching Potter’s expression. He tries again, “Do you _want_ me to stay?”

Potter doesn’t break eye contact, but the softness is gone from his tone when he says, “It doesn’t matter what I want.” 

Draco still hates the way Potter’s voice gets like that, the way it loses all inflection when anything to do with him comes up.

Draco regards Potter carefully, examining his face, which has gone blank, and his stance, which is still relaxed. He remembers the way Potter had looked last night, cloaked in shadow, outlined faintly with the light through the windows. He looks much less menacing and more real in the light of day where Draco can see his eyes, that light moss green framed in thick, black lashes and the wrinkles of his crow’s feet. 

“It does, actually,” Draco finally responds. “And when you put it like that it sounds like you _don’t_ want me to be here.”

A small crease forms on Potter’s forehead, his expression tightening a little. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you’re being intentionally vague,” Draco points out. “Which makes it sound like you’re avoiding saying what you think I don’t want to hear.”

Potter’s mouth twists to one side briefly in an almost guilty sort of expression.

“I’m not going to stay where I’m not welcome,” Draco adds dryly. 

Potter looks down and away from Draco, his mouth thinning and his eyes shifting around in thought. 

For a moment Draco had allowed himself to think that Potter might actually want him to stay—that he might care. He thought that there was something in the way Potter stayed up all night waiting for him, something about the way he left a light on for Draco, how Draco had found him with a wand in hand—which he hadn’t seen the whole time he’s been living here—and something in the way he’d made breakfast for Draco. 

But no. Potter was only concerned about Draco drawing enemies to his door, and probably only left him breakfast so he could be guilt-free when he sends Draco off with a full stomach. 

It puts a heavy, sinking feeling in Draco’s gut, a chill that travels down his spine and gives him goosebumps. He wants to be angry, his default is to be angry, but in this moment Draco just can’t. He’s too weary and too battered by the previous day’s events and all the emotional turmoil to summon the energy to try and disguise his dismay for anger. 

Draco sighs, but he’s not surprised, really. He knew from the beginning that this was a bad idea. He and Potter have never gotten along, no matter what small amount of amusement Potter seemed to draw from Draco’s dry commentary. He has spent more time trying to upset Potter than amuse him, so of course he wouldn’t want to live with Draco. It’s exactly as he said—Draco pushes everyone away. 

“Look. It’s fine,” Draco says wearily, running a hand through his hair and looking away from Potter and out the open garage doors. “Just—if you can give me a little bit of Muggle money so I can buy transportation to Wiltshire I’ll be fine. I can get word to Hermione once I’m setup somewhere else.”

“No,” Potter says sharply, sliding another cold dagger into Draco’s gut. 

“No, of course,” Draco says, rubbing his hands on his thighs and then patting his pockets to make sure his emergency kit is there. He can’t quite look Potter in the eye. “You’re right. I’ve already asked too much. I’m sorry, I’ll just—” 

“No.” Potter grabs Draco’s wrist right as he’s turning to leave. It startles Draco into meeting Potter’s gaze. Potter’s expression is pinched in concern and frustration. “I mean, I don’t—”

Draco searches Potter’s expression. His grip on Draco’s wrist is burning hot and just on this side of too tight, but Draco doesn’t try to pull away. A small, budding sensation of hope forms in his chest. 

Potter drops his gaze to where he’s holding Draco and then releases him quickly. He worries his bottom lip and doesn’t look back up. 

Draco tries to wait for Potter to work out his thoughts, but he feels too on edge and gives in to gentle teasing. “Use your words, Ugg.”

That gets Potter to look up at him again, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a small smirk. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, then runs a hand over his beard and sighs. 

“Look,” he finally says, “I’m not really—I’m just—the things you’ve said, about me, you’re right. I’m not good for you. I’m not good for anyone. I’m not…” Potter looks down and sighs, pausing a moment, then he looks back up at Draco. “I’m not safe to be around. I have trouble with my magic. With hurting people. That’s—” Potter cuts off again and rubs at the back of his neck, looking out of the garage and then gesturing vaguely in that direction. “That’s what half the wards are for. Containing me.”

Draco blinks at Potter in surprise as realisation settles in. He makes a vague noise of understanding in the back of his throat but isn’t sure yet what to say. When Draco offers no opinion, Potter continues.

“When it was just going to be a few days it was fine. I thought, you know, I could handle that. You wouldn’t be at too much risk. But the longer you stay…” Potter gives a small, sort of helpless shrug, then looks back at Draco, his tone turning frustrated when he continues, “And you—you—just—keep—fucking—” 

Potter pauses to look for the right word, hands balling into fists, so Draco supplies, “Tempting fate?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Potter says with a huff and a shake of his head. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Draco says, one hand on his hip and the other held out at waist height. “You’re worried if I stay that you’ll hurt me? That’s why you won’t ask me to stay?”

Potter nods, looking down and shoving his hands in his pockets, and the action makes him look so young and insecure, like he’s asking Draco to the Yule Ball, that Draco gets the absurd urge to hug him.

Draco feels sad as he contemplates how lonely Potter must have been all these years. Then it hits him, the parallels of their situation—the both of them pushing others away to protect them. Potter hurts people with his wild magic. Draco hurts people with, well, being Draco. 

“Then it’s decided,” Draco says firmly. Potter’s eye dart up and there’s a flash of emotion there, a sort of sad acceptance. 

He is expecting Draco to leave, to run away screaming, because that’s what Draco does, he puts himself first, always. 

“I’m staying.”

Potter’s lips part and his eyes widen. Then his brows come down and he looks like he’s about to argue with Draco’s decision. 

“Potter,” he says to head him off, “I just spent the last three years living amongst some of the most dangerous Dark wizards in our country. I think I can handle The Boy Who Blows Early.” 

Potter’s mouth ticks up in one of those small, flashes of a smile. “Draco…” he begins and trails off, shaking his head. Hearing Potter use his first name makes his stomach squirm unexpectedly. “You’re not safe here.”

“I’m not safe anywhere,” Draco tells him flatly. After a pregnant pause he tries once more, “Do you want me to stay?”

Potter’s eyebrows and his mouth do that thing where Draco can tell he’s trying to figure out a way around the question, so Draco rephrases. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

Green eyes find his once more, holding his gaze steadily. It takes him a moment, but the answer comes out, quiet and seemingly pulled from him almost without his consent. “No.”

Draco nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There. Now was that so hard?” he asks smugly. 

“Probably not as hard as it was for you to come back last night,” Potter deadpans.

Draco makes an offended noise and without thinking smacks the back of his hand against Potter’s arm. He’s used to being playful and tactile and the reaction comes out naturally from Potter taunting him. 

Draco freezes for a second after he realises that he was being playful with Potter. It doesn’t seem to bother Potter, in fact Draco notes the deeper crease of his crow’s feet—Potter is amused by it. 

Draco quirks an eyebrow. “You must be a masochist. Should I be worried?” 

“Probably,” Potter returns easily. When that trace of amusement doesn’t immediately wipe from Potter’s face, Draco starts to think that maybe all this time instead of berating Potter, he should have been joking with him. 

For a moment Draco feels that familiar self-hatred when he realises that his first and only thought on how to get a response out of Potter had been to hurt him. He’d never thought to make him happy, it had only ever happened occasionally by accident when Draco made a disparaging comment about some Muggle in a magazine or the characters in a TV show when they do something stupid.

“You going to keep being a tit then?” Potter asks.

“Probably,” Draco reflects Potter’s answer back at him with a smirk. “How else am I going to break that stupid, stoic face of yours?”

He gets a raised eyebrow for that. “So, what? You’ve been provoking me because you don’t like my face?”

“I’ve never liked your face, Potter. Keep up,” Draco says, and Potter’s lips move up in a ghost of a smile. “See? You’re smiling. It’s working already.”

Potter schools his face back into something more serious, but it’s not the same wiping of the slate like it usually is, it’s more like he’s self-consciously trying to hide his smile.

Draco finds it stupidly endearing.

◊ ◊ ◊

After that, the days slip by with a strange ease. Draco stops doing everything in his power to annoy Potter and they actually start to get along. In fact, it’s almost absurd how easily they get along when Draco stops intentionally heckling him. While Potter is still emotionally reserved, there’s a new, fragile sense of camaraderie connecting them. Like recognising like.

Draco even starts to feel comfortable and settled in Potter’s house. He’s used to feeling alone even when he’s with someone else, he is used to feeling like he doesn’t belong anywhere, but Potter’s little Muggle house starts to feel like...not quite like home, but maybe a home away from home. It scares Draco. 

A week goes by with almost nothing to mark the days passing. His life with Potter becomes comfortable, domestic even. They get into a routine where Potter works out in the morning and Draco pretends not to watch him, Potter cooks and Draco does the dishes, then Potter works in his garage and Draco reads stories out loud to him. Potter introduces Draco to Netflix and they both get caught up in a TV drama called Battlestar Galactica, and every night they watch at least one episode together during dinner. 

One day, out of curiosity, Draco asked Potter how he came to know so much about fixing Muggle machines.

“YouTube,” Potter had responded with a shrug. “And necessity. I spent a few years on the road after—after.” He nods in gesture towards the covered bike in the corner—Sirius’ bike.

Draco hums, wanting to ask more about it but getting the sense that if he pushed right now Potter would shut down. “YouTube?” 

That night Draco stays up until four in the morning and somehow goes from watching videos explaining how Muggle machines work to videos of animals startling themselves by farting. 

Draco gets worried when he realises he’s starting to lose track of the days, and after that he starts to check the calendar in Potter’s office every day. He’s scared of letting himself get too comfortable. He’s scared of the easy companionship he finds in Potter, of the comfort he feels being in his placid presence, because time has only ever taught him that nothing good lasts and the worst happens when you are the least prepared for it.

When Sunday comes around, Draco makes a concerted effort to talk to May and try to get to know her and get to know more about Potter through her. She is polite and engaging, but she talks around Draco’s questions with surprising ease and in the end Draco is left with the sense that she’s hiding something. Potter is of no help, of course.

At one point she rubs a hand over Potter’s scruff and suggests it’s time to trim it. Potter hums and feels his beard himself, which is starting to look a bit wild in Draco’s opinion. Draco watches this interaction curiously and notes later at dinner when Potter has trimmed his beard down to be a little tidier, though it’s not clean-shaven.

The following Monday, which Draco notes is the second of May, Hermione makes another visit. She walks into the garage in mid-afternoon while Potter is down on the floor, working a rubber tyre off its wheel and Draco is reading to him from Don Quixote. 

She stops short when she finds them like this, looking from Potter to Draco with a curious expression. Draco stops reading, puts his bookmark in place, and sets the book down. Potter and Draco glance at each other, then Potter gets up, turns over the open sign to closed, and shuts the garage doors. It’s near closing time anyway.

“Harry, Draco,” Hermione greets. 

“Hermione,” Draco responds and Potter nods. 

They go into the kitchen to talk after Potter offers to make tea. 

Draco can tell by the tight expression on Hermione’s face that she’s brought bad news and is trying to figure out how to tell him. 

Draco decides to break the ice. “How are the kids?”

“Oh,” Hermione seems taken off guard by the question, then she puts a hand on her hip and sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Okay, I think. They miss their dad, but they’re both old enough that I’ve explained what’s happened and they understand.”

“Ron’s still in in jail then?” Draco deduces. 

Hermione’s lips thin and she nods. “They’ve set a date for the trial, finally, but it won’t be ‘til June. I’m sure Damian’s forcing the Wizengamot to put it off, citing ridiculous regulations about getting evidence together,” she rants and gestures angrily. “What evidence? They know they don’t have any real ground to stand on once they get in court and review the memories. Probably more worried his men will get in trouble for attacking the Head Auror, blowing your cover and ruining the operation. Probably hoping we’ll try to settle out of court. Probably thinking that if they scare us enough we won’t—we won’t—” 

Hermione’s voice cracks and she chokes down a sob. Draco steps closer and puts an arm around her, murmuring reassurances. She presses into his embrace, then pulls back and takes a deep breath. 

Potter hands her a cup of tea, which she accepts with quiet thanks. He squeezes her arm once then lets his hand fall as she takes a sip. 

Draco lets go of her when Potter hands him a cup of tea as well. It’s made perfectly, just as he likes it—dark with a splash of milk and two spoons of sugar. 

“They haven’t let me see him recently, and last time—” the words get caught in her throat and she swallows, then tries again. “The last time he didn’t look—he wouldn’t say, but I think they’ve been hurting him.” 

Draco’s eyes widen, then he blinks and glances at Potter. He watches how Potter’s hands tighten on his own cup of tea and a muscle jumps in his jaw. 

“What can we do?” Potter asks, and Draco feels an unexpected rush of warmth at Potter’s choice of the plural ‘we’. But no, Draco pushes the irrational feeling away. More likely he meant Hermione and himself, not Draco, no matter how well they have been getting on. 

Hermione shakes her head. “Nothing. I don’t want you to worry about it. Damian’s not all-powerful, he and his men still have to answer to the law. They’ll get what’s coming to them,” she says, and Draco doesn’t miss the way Potter’s expression falls at that. It’s a small change, but apparent to anyone who is paying attention. Hermione doesn’t seem to catch it, but Draco does. 

“Oh, I do have some good news though,” she says brightly.

“Thank Merlin,” Draco mutters. 

“I think I can get the tracker removed from your wand,” Hermione says, her tone and posture picking up at the prospect of being able to do something good, but as soon as she’s said it, Draco’s hope deflates. “I’ve been talking to—”

“Hermione,” Draco cuts her off. “I appreciate the thought, but it—it doesn’t matter anymore.” He tries to keep from sounding too miserable about it.

Hermione’s gives him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“I—” Draco begins and then stops. “It doesn’t matter. My wand broke.” Draco swallows hard, nearly choking on the words, but he manages to get them out. 

Hermione still looks confused and now slightly concerned as well. “How did it happen? How bad is it?” she asks. 

Draco is not sure that he could say it out loud without getting too emotional, so instead he opts for showing rather than telling. Since he returned he’s been wearing his robes and keeping his broken wand in his breast pocket, close to his heart. 

He draws it out and holds it delicately in his hand, snapped in half and still barely hanging together by the dragon heartstring core. 

Draco hears Hermione gasp quietly when it’s revealed, but Draco’s eyes move instead to Potter, who is looking at Draco’s wand with an odd sort of wonder. He looks up and meets Draco’s eyes, his eyebrows doing that thing they do when he’s confused and trying to puzzle something out. 

Draco had never told Potter about it. He never told Potter anything of what happened the day he ran away, and Potter hasn’t pressed him on it. He’d seen Potter glancing at Draco’s forearm where he wears his wand holster, almost like he knew something was wrong, but he’d never said anything. 

Now though, now Draco can see the question in his eyes. Draco looks away. 

Hermione is looking between the both of them suspiciously. “Have you two been fighting?” she asks. 

“No,” Draco answers as Potter shakes his head. “It—it was an accident,” Draco settles on. “So I appreciate the thought, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Hermione gives him a considering look, then nods. “When I was able to speak to Ron, he asked me to ask if you’d written up any final reports. He knows a lot of it won’t be viable now, but he’s hoping some of what you learned can be salvaged.”

“Oh, er, no. I haven’t even thought to. Honestly, I didn’t figure I would be anywhere long enough to do so.” Draco glances at Potter, catching his eye and then looking back at Hermione. “Or that Ron would be able to use it if I did. I suppose I could, though.”

“Do it,” she says decisively. “Copper’s running things while Ron’s away, I’ll get him any information you have and he can decide what to do with it. If nothing else, they should be apprised.” 

Draco frowns. He never liked Copper, but he is the senior Auror in this situation. “Fine, I’ll have it ready next time. Nothing much changed since my last report. Though I wonder if this might be a good chance, while they’re reshuffling, to get a beat on the Magnate—”

Potter’s whole body jerks. His head swivels to Draco and he looks at him with an alarming intensity. The air gets that heavy, charged feel to it, which Draco hasn’t felt since their last argument. 

“What did you say?” Potter asks slowly. 

“Er,” Draco darts a nervous glance at Hermione, then looks back at Potter. “I said maybe with the upheaval we might get a line on the Magnate.”

Potter clenches his jaw. Draco and Hermione both start at the sound of a dish shattering. At first Draco thinks it’s the cup in Potter’s hand because he’s gripping it so tight, but a quick glance down tells him that it’s not. He thinks it must have been something in one of the cupboards. 

“Harry,” Hermione says gently, she sets her mug down and puts one hand on his wrist and grips his cup with the other. For a second Potter’s hold on the cup tightens, then he releases it and Hermione gingerly takes it from him and sets it on the counter. 

Draco watches Potter, brows drawn in concern, as Potter’s hands clench and then release. He holds them both out, palm up, fingers spread, and stares down at them. Draco can see Potter’s mouth moving subtly, counting silently like when he’s doing his workout in the morning. 

‘One, two, three, four five. One, two, three, four, five.’ Draco makes out the mouthed set of numbers being repeated. The lights flicker on and off.

Draco has caught flashes of Potter doing this before, but never this openly. He’s seen him looking at his hands, but not the counting, and he never thought much of it. He assumed Potter was checking the state of his usually grease-stained hands. But no, this is something entirely different. 

Hermione reaches out to him again, gently laying a hand on Potter’s forearm. He stops counting and looks up at her. Her expression is concerned as she nods at him. 

Potter releases a shaky exhale and swallows. “Sorry,” he says quietly and drops his hands. 

“It’s okay, Harry,” she says softly—pityingly, Draco thinks—and rubs a hand up and down Potter’s arm.

Draco watches this interaction with furrowed brows and a narrowed, wary gaze. 

After Potter collects himself, Hermione drops her hand and looks back at Draco. “I should get going. I’ll be back in a week, maybe sooner if I can.”

“I’ll have a report ready,” Draco says. 

Hermione looks between them again, hesitating, then says to Draco. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

Draco frowns but nods. They leave Potter in the kitchen and go out into the living room. Hermione puts a hand on his elbow, directing him further in, closer to the front door, and glances behind her as if to check that Potter’s not following.

“Look, Draco. If you two really are getting on, then I’m glad for that. I don’t think this situation was ideal for anyone,” she begins and Draco frowns but nods his agreement. “You know if there were anywhere else he could have taken you, Ron would have. And not just because of your history.” 

She pauses, like she’s expecting something from Draco, so he gives a short, “Okay.” 

“Harry’s not—he’s—” she struggles to explain. “He gets very wrapped up in cases. He gets himself too involved. To the point where he becomes a danger to himself. I don’t want you involving him in this—in Ron’s case, in your investigation. He’s has a life here.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at that. He barely suppressed the sardonic, _Does he?_ that wants to come out. Instead he switches to, “What was that? Back there.” He jerks his chin toward the kitchen. 

Hermione’s lips thin, and her eyes briefly follow Draco’s gesture toward the kitchen before meeting his again. “He hasn’t talked to you about it?”

“He said he has control issues with his magic.”

“Yeah, it’s—I’m sure he’ll explain it to you if he wants. But that’s the gist of it.”

Draco purses his lips. He knows there’s more she’s not telling him, but he can also tell that he won’t get any more from her. “Alright.”

She gives him something of a forced smile and a nod, and then she’s out the door and gone again.

Draco hums in thought as he runs through her words in his mind. After a second he feels eyes on him, and he looks over to see Potter standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, hands stuck in his pockets, watching Draco with a carefully blank face. 

Draco considers asking him about what Hermione said and about Potter’s sudden loss of control, then decides against it. “Dinner?”

Potter nods, and they both go to the kitchen where Draco argues with Potter about having chicken for the fourth night a row. _Variety,_ he insists.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter some dark themes are mentioned—kidnapping, human trafficking, murder. Some things are seen in the "present" through old memories—description of corpses, Harry's drug use and its effect on him.

The next morning seems the same as every other. They both get up at five, Potter goes right down to start working out while Draco showers and goes through his morning skincare routine. 

When he’s finished, he goes to the garage and catches the last half of Potter’s exercise. He discusses the menu for breakfast this morning and debates the best ways to cook and eat a poached egg with himself, since Potter never gives much input beyond the occasional grunt, all the while watching a drop of sweat slowly travel down the back of Potter’s neck, following a line of his trapezius down under his vest top. 

Potter’s doing incline push ups, and Draco’s having a hard time looking away from his exposed shoulder, from the moon and constellation tattoo, and his back muscles as they work. 

“English muffins, Potter,” Draco insists, trying to keep focus. “We’re making some this morning. You know I’ve seen you bake, I know you are capable.”

Normally that would have gotten something from Potter, a glance, the hint of a wry smile maybe, but this morning Potter has been more subdued than usual and he gets no response. If anything, Potter seems more keen on his workout. Draco is sure it has something to do with yesterday, but Draco is determined not to act any differently. 

By the time the red, electronic clock on the wall reads 6:27, longer than he’s ever seen Potter workout before, Draco is done. He stands up, grabs Potter’s towel and throws it at his face mid-tricep dip.

Potter grunts, pushing back up before grabbing at the towel with one hand and pulling it off his head. He glares at Draco and Draco glares right back, planting his hands on his hips. 

“You’ve punished yourself long enough. I’m hungry. It’s time for breakfast,” Draco says sternly, ignoring the anxious twist in his stomach from the parallels in this situation to the morning Draco left. 

Potter’s mouth tightens and he looks like he wants to say something, but instead he pushes himself to standing and starts towelling himself off mutely. He turns and heads into the house and Draco follows, releasing a quiet breath and letting himself admire the muscular swell of Potter’s buttocks in his exercise shorts.

When Potter starts making omelettes, Draco huffs, “Did you not hear me specifically requesting English muffins and poached eggs? Should we have your hearing checked? You are getting on in years, after all.”

When Potter doesn’t respond, Draco does what he knows will get a reaction. He starts pulling the ingredients, or what he thinks the ingredients are, for English muffins out of the pantry and thumping them down onto the counter.

“If that’s how you’re going to be then I’ll just make the damned things myself. I don’t know a thing about your Muggle oven, but I’m sure I can figure it out. It doesn’t seem that hard,” Draco says stubbornly. “If you think you can starve me out by refusing my demands, you have another thing coming.”

“Draco,” Potter addresses him with a sigh. “It’s going to take over two hours to make them, so unless you’re not actually starving and willing to wait that long…” He trails off pointedly.

Draco frowns, but he got what he wanted. “Fine. I suppose omelettes will have to do for today,” he says in a put-upon voice. 

“We’ll make the muffins later so we can have them for tomorrow,” Potter says and Draco nods. He turns to hide his smug smile and starts putting away the baking products he’d taken from the pantry.

Things are a little easier after that with the tension broken, though Potter still seems too quiet. When they’re finished eating, Draco picks up their plates and takes them to the sink. While he’s rinsing them off he can feel Potter’s presence and he turns to see the other man watching him. 

Normally as soon as breakfast is done, Potter is running upstairs to shower. This behaviour is unusual, and Draco turns off the tap to give Potter his full attention. He dries his hands on a dishtowel, narrowing his eyes at Potter in question, and waits him out. 

Eventually Potter crosses his arms over his chest and says what is on his mind. “I want you to tell me about your investigation.”

Draco’s eyebrows rise in surprise. 

Hermione’s words come back to him and he glances away, licking his lips as he mulls it over. 

Potter’s face is carefully blank when Draco looks back at him. “Are you going to break another dish if I do?”

The question seems to catch Potter off guard, and a flicker of something Draco doesn’t quite catch flashes in his expression. “Yeah, I might.”

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitches up at that. At least he’s honest about it. “Why do you want to know? You’ve never expressed interest before.”

Potter glances away, his fingers curl and relax, like he’s not sure what he wants to do with his hands. 

When Potter doesn’t seem inclined to answer, Draco fills in the blanks for him. “You know something,” he says. A person doesn’t have the kind of response Potter had yesterday without knowing something. “Have you come across him before? The Magnate?”

The muscle under Potter’s eye twitches at the name, but he doesn’t break any tableware this time. He seems concentrated on breathing evenly. 

Draco tilts his head curiously as he watches this. Hermione’s warning echoes in his head, it reminds him of when he overheard Ron telling Potter not to get involved. He thinks about the way Hermione brushed Potter off yesterday when he offered to help, the way Potter’s expression fell. 

Well, Draco’s never been good at doing what he’s told anyway. He relaxes his pose, leaning his hip against the counter and bending one knee to shift his weight. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

The flirtation comes naturally to Draco with no real intent behind it, so Potter’s response is unexpected. His eyes skate briefly down Draco’s body, almost like he would like to see what Draco’s got. All Draco can think is, _Huh._

“Alright,” Potter agrees, then turns and leaves the kitchen. 

Draco notices the way Potter’s hands come up, the way he’s looking at them as he walks away. He hums curiously to himself, then turns and gets back to rinsing the dishes. 

Later, when Potter comes back downstairs, Draco watches him. He’s waiting for Potter to start questioning him, but Potter moves through his day as normal, going to the garage and resuming work on the bike he left off on the day before. 

When Draco doesn’t start reading to him or jabbering about something like he normally does, Potter stops and acknowledges Draco’s anticipation for an exchange of information as discussed. 

“I need time,” Potter says flatly, then adds, “to prepare.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, wondering what sort of preparation he would need for a conversation, but he accepts the excuse. He picks up his book and continues where they left off, and they go through the rest of the day as normal. 

At one point Potter disappears, seemingly for a bathroom break. When he’s gone for longer than ten minutes Draco gets curious and goes looking for him. His heart starts to speed up when he doesn’t find Potter anywhere in the house. 

He checks all the rooms again and then catches movement outside the kitchen window. Draco furrows his brow, and goes to the kitchen door, which exits to the back of the house. He’s never used it before, and when he opens it he finds a little patio of square stones with moss between them, a set of rusted patio furniture—a small table with two chairs—and Potter. 

Potter glances over to him, then looks away almost guiltily. He’s smoking a cigarette. Outside. Outside the actual house or garage. 

Draco raises an eyebrow and walks over to him, watching curiously as Potter raises the cigarette to his lips, sucks a breath through it, and then blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth opposite Draco. 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Draco comments, which makes Potter meet his gaze. He shrugs in answer. 

Draco watches him for another minute, following the action of putting the cigarette between his lips, breathing in, and exhaling. Draco’s never smoked a Muggle cigarette before. His grandfather used to smoke from a pipe and Draco still remembers the rich aroma of the burning tobacco, and the way it hung on his robes and all his things. 

He’s never been able to smell tobacco since without being momentarily drawn back into his grandfather’s study with its walls of books and shelves of whizzing, whistling and whirring instruments. 

Once when he was eight, he’d wandered in to watch his grandfather’s experiments and had expressed curiosity about his pipe. Abraxas had let him take a puff, then laughed genially and clapped Draco on the back when he started coughing and sputtering.

His mother had walked in on this and pulled him out of the study with a nearly painful grip on his arm, all while coldly chastising Abraxas for allowing such a thing and then banning Draco from the study. His grandfather had got sick and died not long after that. 

The smoke from Potter’s cigarette is almost familiar in that way, but different. It smells more acrid, maybe. 

Potter has been watching Draco during his little trip down memory lane. Draco draws himself back into the present. 

He glances at the half-smoked cigarette in Potter’s hand, then looks back at Potter and holds out his hand expectantly. Potter raises an eyebrow, but he passes the cigarette over, putting it between Draco’s middle and pointer finger, the way he’d been holding it. 

Draco holds Potter’s eye contact as he brings the fag to his lips, and purses them around it. Draco knows he has a nice mouth, a full, pouty cupid’s bow in a good shade of pink. Enough men have told him as much over the years that he knows it’s one of his better features and one he likes to highlight when given a chance, especially since it’s aged better than most of the rest of him. 

Draco feels smug when he sees the way Potter’s eyes flick down to his lips. Perhaps this whole misadventure needn’t be as boring as Draco had thought. He’ll have to make use of this information later. 

After drawing in a deep breath from the cigarette, Draco comes up coughing. He’s almost bent double as he chokes on the burning, prickling sensation the smoke sends across his tongue, down his throat and into his lungs.

He feels a warm hand on his back and out of the corner of his eye he can see Potter’s chest shaking with stifled laughter. Draco comes up from his coughing fit red faced with eyes that are tear-stung. He feels a bit light headed and more aware of his pulse beating in his neck. 

“What the hell—is that?” Draco huffs indignantly around a cough. 

Potter seems to be trying and failing to smother a smile as he takes the cigarette back. “Tobacco,” he says. “Plus a bunch of chemicals that’ll kill you.”

“Ugh,” Draco groans. “Why would Muggles smoke that? Why would _you_ smoke that?” He’s seen enough of them doing it on the television and around town that he knows it’s a common practice.

Potter shrugs then says, “Like the way it feels. Old habit.”

Draco doesn’t notice that Potter’s hand had still been resting on his lower back until it’s gone, leaving the spot feeling cold and empty. 

“Old?” he asks.

The corner of Potter’s mouth quirks up into a small smile. “What can I say? You bring out my vices.”

Draco’s eyebrows go up at that. “Oh really?” he asks, amused. “Should I check the house for illicit potions?” Draco forgot to play nice, but he can’t help himself sometimes.

Potter’s expression falters, but then he gives a wry smile and, strangely, rolls with it. “Sure, you’re welcome to anything you find,” he says. “Actually, if you do find anything let me know and we’ll get high together. It’s been a while.” 

Draco knows his mouth is hanging open, but he can’t do more than gape and blink in response. Based on Potter’s reactions before of either forced indifference or tight-lipped frustration when Draco commented on his history of potion addiction, he’s not expecting Potter to joke about it. 

Potter takes another drag from his cigarette, seeming amused and unconcerned. Draco’s eyes narrow. _Is_ he joking? Draco can’t be sure. 

After almost too long without a response, Draco collects himself and says, “Not my vice of choice. I prefer a nice bottle of wine or two. In fact, you might have found me much more agreeable these past few weeks if you’d just put a glass of wine in my hand.” 

Of all the things Draco had had to abruptly go cold turkey on, wine was one of the worst. Wine, and sex.

◊ ◊ ◊

Two days go by before Potter brings up the Dark witches and wizards Draco had been investigating. In that period Draco has noticed Potter smoking a couple more times, but he left him alone to chase his old vice.

They start their day as normal, but after Potter comes down from his shower he doesn’t open the garage. He’s also not wearing his coveralls over his clothes, instead he’s barefoot in worn blue jeans and an aubergine V-neck. He goes to the kitchen and makes a pot of tea. 

Draco settles on one of the stools and leans an elbow on the counter behind him. By the time the tea’s brewed, poured, and fixed to their individual tastes, Draco knows where this is going. 

Potter wraps his hands around his teacup, breathing in the smell of the dark Ceylon mix, and then looks at Draco evenly. “Tell me about your investigation.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at that. “Jumping right into it then?” he asks demurely, crossing one leg over the other and bouncing his foot side to side. “I usually like a little romancing first—a night on the town, a private dinner at a high-quality establishment, a bottle of wine of a good vintage, of course.”

“Draco,” Potter sighs, but he can tell that Potter’s fighting to keep a straight face.

“Will there at least be a trade off at some point? Quid pro quo? Call me selfish but I like to sample everything on the table.” Draco smirks when that gets Potter to cover his face, knowing he’s hiding a smile. Draco’s been making an effort to flirt with him at every opportunity since the revelation that Potter might not be as straight as he once thought.

When Potter gets himself back together, he looks up at Draco with a newly cleared expression and says, “There will be. You start us off.”

“Mm, I like a man who knows what he wants,” Draco purrs. 

“Draco,” Potter growls in warning. 

“Alright, alright,” Draco concedes. He takes a deep breath, gaze wandering around the kitchen as he tries to decide where to start. 

Potter waits quietly as Draco thinks and takes a sip of his tea. 

“Okay,” he says once his thoughts are in order. “Six years ago, I went on assignment in Swansea. There was a group of Dark Arts practitioners who were kidnapping Muggles, wiping their memories, and trafficking them. It was pretty straightforward, figure out who was involved and how they ran their operation, enough to shut it down and move on. It only took seven months, and it didn’t seem like they were connected to any other groups, from what I could tell their ambitions were local and shallow. There was no grand design, no mastermind behind it—they just wanted to make some easy money and didn’t care who they hurt in the process. 

“But then, near the end of it, I heard a couple of the wizards talking about sending a special shipment to Hastings. It wasn’t on their records, yes, the morons kept a record of all their transactions, and I’d never heard them mention it before. I told Ron to ask about it in their interrogations, but nothing came of it. Still, it stuck in my mind as odd, something in the way they were talking about it.”

Draco pauses to get a drink of tea and wet his lips. Potter is standing calmly but attentively across from him, leaned against the counter near the sink, one hand holding the edge of the counter, the other holding his tea. His hair is still wet from his shower, tied back in a messy bun on the nape of his neck like he does sometimes.

“So anyway,” Draco continues. “A couple years go by, I go on another assignment, this one in a small town off Whitby, some witches and wizards poaching and selling ingredients illegally, unicorn blood, golden snidget eyes, so forth.” Draco rolls his hand in the air illustratively. “Same thing, basically—get in, get the information, get out. Only I hear them mention sending special shipments to Hastings as well, and it triggers that memory in my mind.

“I talk to Ron about it, we both decide there’s enough there for concern and decide to look into it. I set myself up to deliver the next shipment there and I meet some not-so-friendly wizards. Right off the bat I can tell they’re different. More guarded, more organised. Ron and I decide to switch gears, have me infiltrate them instead. Took me about a year before I earned enough trust to get even the lowest ranking position among them. 

“Their operation is...well, like I said. It’s different. It’s not like your run of the mill coven dipping into the Dark Arts for a bit of power, or money, or mayhem. It’s...I haven’t come across anything as organised since the Dark Lord. They have multiple branches across the country that I know of, and I get the feeling there are more that I don’t know about. 

“It’s been harder to infiltrate them because the way they’re setup—the structure is—it’s like—it’s a multi headed beast. They all answer to the same cause, but every head is self-contained. It operates as its own, independent segment, which if cut off never hurts the body because almost no one knows anything about the other heads or who is captaining the ship.”

“The Magnate,” Potter interjects, speaking for the first time since Draco began. 

Draco nods. “Yes, as far as I know. And I don’t know if the Magnate is an individual, or a group of people, or a whole operation in its own right. It’s taken me three years to even _hear_ the name, and that was from snooping. They keep information tightly controlled through the ranks.

“Recently, however, almost a year ago I was able to get close to the wizard in charge of my operation. He told me...not anything in particular about the Magnate, more like—more like the rhetoric. Maybe even the reason behind it all? Kind of weird ideas, he said they want to control the distribution of magic or some such. They don’t want to allow any witches or wizards to ever get as powerful as Voldemort, or even Dumbledore, had.

“He said no one deserves that much power. Though I don’t know how they could possibly control that. Or how they don’t realise that they themselves are rapidly becoming quite powerful.”

Draco sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then shakes his head dejectedly. “This is the biggest case of my life, and now it’s been trampled all over by Damian and his zealous, short-sighted, incompetent band of _nitwits,_ ” Draco snarls. 

Potter is quiet while Draco stews over the loss. After a moment he prompts, “What was it called? The organisation?” 

Draco blinks up at him, then nods. “Right. They call themselves the Trutina, _the Scales,_ pretentious, I know. Then every sect had a nickname, where I worked was simply called The Estate. We work on experimental potions, me and two other potioneers, things the Ministry would never approve. Permanently altering physiology, changing brain chemistry. One we’ve been working on for a while that...it’s hard to describe, I don’t even know exactly its purpose. I’m given directions and I make the potion. But based on what I know of it, it’s like it makes a person calm...detached I guess? Changes their energy to be more open or something.”

There’s a tightness to Potter’s expression, though Draco doesn’t think it’s directed at him. 

“Ron and I had plans to insert spies into the other sects of the Trutina. We took one of them down, the one that was kidnapping Muggles and sending them to my operation, once I learned about it. That went over well,” Draco huffs. “It didn’t even cause a blip in the overall scheme, it seemed. And before we knew it another had cropped up in its place, like, like—”

“Like a hydra?” Potter suggests.

“Yes. Like a hydra,” Draco agrees and flashes Potter a grateful smile. “We learned early on that we wouldn’t stop them by chopping one head off. We would need a whole team of agents to infiltrate and take it down in one, sure strike. Ron had started negotiating with Walker to get some Hit Wizards involved. The whole Auror department can’t just disappear on an undercover assignment, after all. Then everything went to hell and now here I am.”

Potter nods, then looks down at his hands and counts his fingers, mouthing the numbers silently. His gaze shifts purposefully, and Draco follows it to the clock on the stove. When he seems satisfied by what he sees there, he exhales a long breath. 

Potter glances at Draco, then purses his lips and taps his fingers on his mug. He looks off over Draco’s shoulder, seeming to be thinking through what Draco’s told him. 

Draco sips his tea, tilting his head and watching him, giving him time to work through what he needs to. He uncrosses and re-crosses his legs to switch them, props his elbow on the counter and leans his cheek on his fist.

“So now I’ve shown you mine,” Draco says after feeling enough time has passed. “Are you going to show me what you’ve got?” 

Potter blinks and looks at Draco, and his eyes take a moment to focus properly, like he’s coming out of a deep daydream. 

When he doesn’t say anything, Draco raises an expectant eyebrow. “You know, I’m not a fan of putting out if there’s no reciprocation.” 

Potter comes back then with a quiet snort, his eyes drop and the corners of them contract, accentuating his crow’s feet in a subtle smile. He looks up after a second and nods decisively. He opens his mouth, then closes it, licks his lips, then tries again, “I should probably give you some context.” 

Draco hums interestedly and sits up. “Alright.” 

Potter downs the last swig of his tea and sets the mug down. He looks at Draco, then away, tapping his fingers against his thighs. “You said you read about me,” he begins and looks back up at Draco. Draco nods. “The biography?”

Draco nods again and says, “Yes.”

“I was—before I left, before the trial, before all that—I was investigating a case. Trafficking, kids going missing. Magical kids, not Muggles,” Potter says, and then pauses, looking at Draco as if in confirmation.

“The case you were on when you, er, killed the suspect?” Potter nods. “Okay, yeah, it was mentioned in the book. Not much though, apparently the Ministry held Skeeter from publishing any sensitive details of the case.”

“Okay,” Potter says, nodding along as if none of this surprises him. He pours himself another cup of tea from the pot and watches it as he swirls the liquid around his mug. After a moment he continues, “What started it, the investigation, was uhm,” Potter pauses and takes a breath, eyes moving around like he’s trying to recall the details. “It was a DB—dead body—in Albury. In Surrey. Tied up ritual-like, blood runes and such. Dark Arts. Never was able to pin down what spell they used. It was old, whatever it was.

“Never caught whoever did it, either, but after we IDed the victim, we found out he’d been reported missing. His missing person case had gone cold, until then when he showed up dead, months later, used in some ritual.” Potter stops and takes a deep breath, shifting his weight and pulling his gaze up from the inside of his cup to Draco.

“Like I said,” he continues, “we never found who killed him, but it did start us down another trail. The kid had been homeless when he was reported missing by a friend. Took us a while to hunt him down to talk to him about it, and then it turned out our victim’s friend hadn’t reported him missing, he’d reported him as kidnapped. He was convinced he’d seen a wizard attack him and carry him off in the night. The investigating officers never found any evidence to support it, assumed the friend was high and the vic had just run off, found something else to do somewhere else. 

“Anyway, the kid was clearly right about his friend, he hadn’t just moved on somewhere else. So we started looking more closely at all the people who’ve been reported missing or kidnapped in the last couple years. You know what we found?” Potter pauses, clearly wanting to Draco to answer. 

Draco shrugs and says, “I don’t know. A rise in missing kids?”

“No. We didn’t find anything,” Potter says flatly. “But this whole murder had me messed up. It just, I don’t know, it didn’t feel right. It just looked too—too perfect, too practiced. Like it wasn’t their first time and wouldn’t be their last. I knew there was more to it, but you know how cases are, they go on for months with nothing, no new leads, and eventually they get pushed to the side for new cases with fresh evidence. 

“I never let it go though,” Potter says with a shake of his head. Draco’s not surprised, he’d never known Potter to let anything go. “When I wasn’t at work I was running down leads on every street corner, every homeless shelter, and every whorehouse I could find.”

“I bet you were rather popular,” Draco injects sarcastically. He tries to imagine a younger Potter in such places, but it seems so incongruous that he can’t picture it. Maybe _this_ Potter he could see, but not the Potter of Hogwarts.

Potter’s eyes had wandered in his retelling of things, and they snap back to Draco now. He gives him a small, crooked smile. “Truth be told, most people didn’t even recognise me by then. Didn’t look a whole lot like my statue in Diagon anymore.” 

“Hmm,” Draco intones thoughtfully, trying to remember how Potter had actually looked at that point—the way he’d been in the papers during his downfall. It comes back to him a little when he puts it in that context, and he remembers long, scruffy hair and hollow eyes.

Potter uses the lull in the conversation to fix himself another cup of tea before he continues. “Eventually I did find something. Another kid gone missing, said to have been stolen by a wizard of similar description to the first. It went on like that for a while before I finally had enough of a pattern to bring to Robards and start an official investigation on it. 

“They were all witches and wizards, though some of them didn’t know that they were, or because of where they came from they hadn’t been able to attend a school. And they weren’t all kids, actually. Mostly they were people no one would look twice at, people that wouldn’t be missed—orphans, runaways, homeless, prostitutes. Because of that a lot of them went unreported.”

Potter lets out a long, quiet breath, looking back down at his tea and swirling it around a couple times before taking a drink of it. He looks up at Draco, then glances away and rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, this is getting longer than I intended. You probably don’t need to know all the details.”

“No, it’s alright,” Draco reassures him. Potter’s story has more than caught his interest. “Go on.”

Potter nods and chews his bottom lip for a second, looking like he’s thinking about how to explain the rest. “Okay, so. The case sort of, dragged on for a while. I don’t exactly know how long, things were getting—some of it’s fuzzy. At some point we caught a break—no, actually I caught a break. I was checking one of the homeless shelters and stumbled on someone getting attacked in a park nearby. 

“I jumped into the middle of it, we fought a bit, I lost my wand somewhere in there, and then the wizard tried to Apparate away. I grabbed onto him at the last second and ended up in his—I dunno, lair? It’s where he—Ellis, his name turned out to be—was keeping all the people he’d taken before selling them. He had them all locked up in these dark cages—” Potter cuts off, his eyes get glossy and distant, like he’s living it over again.

Draco swallows hard, remembering the earliest chapters of Skeeter’s biography on Potter. She’d said that he’d been locked in a dark closet for most of his childhood. It had struck Draco harder than anything else he read, if it were true. 

He remembers how he’d been so excited for a voyeuristic insight into the man who’d plagued him for so long, and then had almost stopped reading it from the guilt when he realised Potter had grown up in an abusive household. He’d always thought Potter had everything, he was the beloved hero, The Boy Who Lived, and Draco remembers the schadenfreude he’d felt at Potter’s downfall—until he’d read that and the foundation of every presumption he’d had of Potter’s life had crumbled.

Draco wonders now if seeing kids locked up like that had a triggering effect on Potter. It seemed rather likely, considering how things turned out, and considering how the room starts to feel heavy and charged with Potter’s magic. 

“Potter?” Draco nudges gently. It snaps him out of wherever he’d gone to in his head and he looks up at Draco. The dense concentration of Potter’s wild magic fades. 

“Er, sorry. Anyway, it—he cast something that killed the prisoners, and—all of it happened so fast. Apparently, I blew him up or something,” Potter says with a shrug that looks to Draco a little too forced to be as nonchalant as Potter is trying to appear. 

“ ‘Apparently’?” Draco echoes, furrowing his brow. “You don’t remember?” 

Potter shakes his head. “No. I blacked out. Came to covered in blood,” he says and twists the cup around and around in his hands. “Don’t really remember much of what happened. I didn’t have my wand, but I knew some wandless magic and my control had been slipping for a while. Then, well, you know how things panned out after that, with the Wizengamot.”

“Yeah,” Draco says simply. 

The trial had been public, and Skeeter had described it in detail. Even if Potter wanted to put up some defence—which he didn’t for some reason, he just turned in his memories and let the court decide without speaking a word of protest—it would have been difficult, considering how his potion addiction came to light and took away any bit of credibility he had. 

Draco supposes that the one redeeming factor of his addiction was that it had taken the charge down to involuntary manslaughter and he had avoided life in Azkaban. 

“I’m guessing that’s where the book ends?” Potter asks, looking up from his mug at Draco.

“Pretty much. There’s a last chapter on Skeeter’s escapades of trying to find you and _not_ finding you, but finding herself in the process,” he says sarcastically and rolls his eyes. “Some pseudo-spiritual rot about finding meaning in—” Draco cuts off when he sees the way Potter is glaring at a tile on the kitchen floor. “Anyway. You don’t want to hear about that.”

Potter’s mouth moves into a tight smile as he glances up at Draco. He sets his mug down on the counter and then watches his fingers as they tap out an erratic rhythm. 

They fall into silence, or mostly silence with Potter’s tapping, and Draco spends it observing Potter. His expression is blank, but there’s a tightness in the set of his shoulders and an uneasy energy in his fidgeting. 

Though he has a hard time forcing himself to stay still and quiet, Draco waits him out and lets Potter work through whatever he needs to work through.

Eventually, Potter looks up at Draco, nods his head once and says, “Okay.” 

Draco raises an eyebrow and twirls his ankle. “Does that mean we’re going to get to the part where this has something to do with my investigation?” 

Potter nods. “That, all of that, that’s what people know of the story. But it didn’t stop there— _I_ didn’t stop there. I was—” Potter stops and shakes his head. “I knew there was more to it, and I thought I could do something about it. No, I thought I was the _only_ one who could do something about it. Everyone thought it had ended with me blowing up that wizard. No more kidnappings so everyone could go home and sleep comfortably, right?” 

Potter turns and looks at Draco like he expects an answer, but then he starts pacing and continues before actually getting one. “Not me. I couldn’t let it go. And, I don’t know, at that point I was more fucked up than ever. I was on potions almost constantly. Half the time I didn’t know what was real, I would black out for periods, I spent a lot of time unsure whether I was awake or dreaming. I just couldn’t stop.

“I found out where Ellis had been living, searched his place, figured out where he’d been keeping the victims—where I killed him. There wasn’t much left, the Aurors had pretty much cleared it out. I tracked down everyone he knew, all his family, friends, associates, and questioned them. Had the Aurors called on me at some point. Ron came and tried to talk me down. He didn’t arrest me, but he tried to get me to stop. I wouldn’t.

“All I could think was, how many people has this happened to? How many more will it keep happening to? And I thought about Voldemort and the lengths he’d gone to evade death and gather power. What if this was something worse? What could someone possibly be doing, messing about with some ancient, blood ritual? The thought of going through another war again, I just—I couldn’t stomach it. I had to stop it, no matter the cost. 

“Because the thing is, everyone had forgotten about that dark ritual way back, about the murder. Everyone thought it was an open and shut kidnapping case, but I knew it wasn’t. When I brought up the murder and the fact that I didn’t believe Ellis was behind the ritual murder, I was brushed off. In their minds it was Ellis or it was unrelated, either way it didn’t matter. Case closed.

“But not for me. I remembered that ritual killing, and how a person of Ellis’ description had been the one to kidnap that boy, but it seemed like too much for one wizard. That ritual was dark, dark as it gets, and ancient. I was convinced he must have had a partner or multiple partners. I couldn’t be sure the murders would stop with his death and I had to be sure.

“So, I kept looking, but trying to track potential partners led nowhere. There were days of just nothing. Searching and talking to anyone who might know anything about it. Every time I got on the trail of a witch or wizard who’d gone missing, someone who fit the profile, the trail would go cold. It was like trying to catch smoke.”

Potter stops and releases a long exhale, pushing up his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Like trying to catch smoke when you don’t even know if the smoke is real,” he amends. He adjusts his glasses, putting them back in place, and then looks across the kitchen at Draco.

Potter pauses for long enough that Draco wonders if he’s expecting some sort of response, but then he continues, “At some point, eventually—I’m not sure how long it had been, I’d sort of lost sense of time—I found a body. Same MO. Killed ritualistically, blood runes, but this one was more posed than the first. Almost, I thought, like it was left for me.”

Potter stops again, rubbing his hand over his mouth and down his beard a few times. “By the time I’d told Ron and brought him out to it, it was gone. Not a trace left. And Ron…” Potter stops and sighs, shaking his head. “I know Ron wanted to believe me, but I hadn’t given him any reason why he should. I had no evidence. I was making leaps no one else would, seeing patterns no one else saw. He wanted me to stop, to come back to the family. Wanted to stick me in St Mungo’s and dry me out, but I wouldn’t go with him. 

“I kept searching, kept running down stories of missing kids and following a ghost trail. Found another body in Whales, then Ireland, then Scotland. Followed the trail all over the UK. I always felt like I was close, like I was just a step behind them. Everywhere I went felt like...like when someone leaves a seat and it’s still warm from them being there. You just know someone was there before you, even if they aren’t there anymore.

“Sometimes it made me feel like a rat in a maze, other times I felt like, whoever it was, I had them desperate, on the run, and it wouldn’t be long before I finally caught up. Sometimes I would catch witches and wizards I thought were working for them, that had some part in all of it, and I—I interrogated them, but I never got enough out of them to get a leg up on it all.

“I trudged through every underbelly of every Wizarding hub from Glasgow to London, and there were groups of witches and wizards I found doing things like kidnapping people and sending them off somewhere, making illegal potions, planning terrorist attacks on Muggle and wizarding places alike. 

“I never could prove it, but I always felt it was all connected somehow. Like they all answered to the same boss, but none of them could or would tell me who was in charge, what the plan was, why they were doing what they were doing. It was mind boggling. 

“The trail looped around through Whales, back into England. Found another body in—” Potter cuts off, eyes darting around in thought. He puts a hand through his hair, then huffs. “I don’t know, I don’t remember the city. Somewhere in Suffolk I think. 

“This time was different though. Once I started finding bodies, I could finally see a new pattern. I knew that the victims were always kidnapped around the new moon, but until I started finding their bodies I wasn’t able to see the whole pattern. All of them were killed at night on the waning crescent. When they died was the same for every one of them.

“So, I knew, when a prost had gone missing on the new moon, said to have left with a john in a funny cloak, I knew they would kill her on the following waxing crescent. I asked around, beat some heads together, eventually someone mentioned some dodgy types hanging around an old shipyard that had been abandoned years back.

“I got there right as they were finishing the spell, or maybe right before they could finish. I started duelling with a couple of the wizards and had to take cover, but then they ran. When I went to follow…” Potter trails off, his eyes getting that far-off look in them. “I, er. Whatever spell they’d been casting distracted me, and that’s when I realised the girl wasn’t dead.”

Potter pauses again, his mouth tightens and a crease forms on his forehead, he looks conflicted. “I had to make a choice, follow them or help her. So, I stayed with her, healed her.” 

“You made the right choice,” Draco says softly but firmly. Potter looks up at him then, eyes wide like he’d forgotten Draco was in the room. He frowns a bit, but then nods his agreement. 

“After that, things got…” Potter begins and then shakes his head. “I dunno, derailed I guess. I took her to St Mungo’s, went back to Ron with everything I had, all the evidence I’d been documenting, all the bodies I’d reported, all the witches and wizards gone missing, and her. But…” 

Draco squints in confusion, then asks. “It wasn’t enough?”

Potter purses his lips and shakes his head. “All the bodies I’d reported, Ron followed up on them and every single one didn’t exist. When the authorities followed my tips, apparently there was nothing there. And everyone who went missing was already lost to the system, homeless, prostitutes, runaways. Those at-risk populations people like to pretend don’t exist. They weren’t found, but they also weren’t missed, so,” Potter shrugs. 

“What about the girl you saved?” Draco prompts. 

Potter snorts and shakes his head. “She turned out to be a Muggle. Or so they told me. She didn’t have any magic. She’d never gone to any magical schools. She’d been born of poor Muggles who’d sold her when she was a child. She’d been sex trafficked to England and had no idea magic even existed, let alone that she might have been magic.”

“But surely she could have given testimony, she could be a witness to—”

“No,” Potter cuts him off. “She had no memory of what happened to her. And since she was a Muggle she didn’t fit into what I was saying, she didn’t fit the profile. She was just a poor Muggle who’d got caught up in some random act of evil.”

Potter looks frustrated, and defensive. He’s got his arms crossed, looking down at the floor, and his fingers are tapping a rhythm against his biceps. 

Draco watches him, and then he says, “You don’t believe that though.”

Potter’s face twists in indecision, reflecting something like frustration and uncertainty. “I don’t know,” he responds curtly. Then after a moment his face softens, he sighs and says, “I think she was a witch. I think they did something to take it away from her.”

Draco’s brows jump up. He blinks and goes fish-mouthed before he can get out the word, “How?”

“Exactly—how?” Potter says dryly. “It’s not like I could prove it. It sounds like the hallucinogen-filled ravings of a potions addict, right?”

When Draco doesn’t answer, he’s sure it’s rhetorical anyway, Potter continues, “After that the trail went cold. I couldn’t reconcile what I saw with what I’d been told. My magic was getting too erratic, and reality was slipping, and I—I ended up—I finally realised I was doing more damage than harm. I went to rehab. A Muggle place, I didn’t really want to be around magic. 

“After I got clean, it...I dunno, it all seemed like a fever dream. I could see how irrational I’d been. How obsessed. How it had nearly consumed me. Ron and Hermione asked me to let it go, so I did.”

Draco eyes Potter curiously, the way he’s now leaning against the counter, one hand on it, fingers tapping away, and his gaze turned to watch those fingers. Draco guesses, “But now you’re thinking it was real. That it’s related to my investigation.”

Potter looks up at him, his expression calm but his eyes are intense. They’re looking at Draco with a fierceness that Draco has missed, that Draco has been trying to reel out of him these long weeks. 

“When I interrupted them that last time, I heard one of them yell, ‘Get the Magnate out,’ ” Potter says slowly and clearly. 

Draco bites his lip and puts all his energy into holding Potter’s eye contact. It’s almost too much to bear—too much to witness. His heart speeds, and his hand twitches, wanting to feel the familiar weight of his wand. 

The thought that all that time Potter had been chasing this leviathan, this spectre of an enemy—the same enemy that Draco has been trying for years to learn anything about, to get more than just a name of—it’s almost unbelievable.

There’s a hardness in Potter’s expression. He is waiting for something from Draco, maybe acknowledgement or denial. He’s probably waiting for Draco to tell him he’s crazy. And it _is_ crazy, when he thinks about it. A trail of bodies going missing? A woman Potter thinks was a witch but isn’t now because of some ancient Dark spell Draco has never heard the like of? Not to mention that Potter admitted to being on mind altering potions throughout it all and couldn’t distinguish reality from fantasy.

When Draco considers it, there’s really only one answer he can give Potter. “I need time to think about this,” he says, and Potter’s reaction is, thankfully, along the lines of what Draco hopes for. He eyes dart between Draco’s, reading his expression carefully, and then he nods his acceptance of Draco’s answer. 

Draco has a feeling that if he had said that he believed Potter right off, Potter wouldn’t believe that Draco’s being honest. Which he wouldn’t be. He _wants_ to believe Potter, but it’s a lot to take in, and he doesn’t want to project his own fanciful desires of bringing down the Magnate and becoming the new hero of the Wizarding World onto Potter’s twenty year old, potion-fuelled delusions of some sinister plot.

On the other hand, if Draco had told him that he didn’t believe him, he’s sure Potter would shut down again. He would accept Draco’s answer and then never open up to anyone ever again. 

Draco thinks he’s starting to recognise a pattern of Potter not having anyone believe in him, even when he’s right, and he thinks it’s almost certainly been a factor in the taciturn, withdrawn man he has become.

Potter looks down at his hands again, spreading them out and counting his fingers. Then he looks to the clock on the stove. Draco watches him curiously. 

“Okay,” Potter says, looking back to Draco. “Take as long as you like. If you decide it’s nonsense, that’s fine. I just...it felt like too much of a coincidence not to mention. If they’re connected, if something’s going on, I just wanted someone to know.”

“Of course,” Draco agrees. 

“And, you don’t have to right now, but I’d like to show you some memories. It’s…” Potter pauses, and licks his lips. “It’s easier—better if you see some of it, before you decide if I’m full of shit or not.”

Draco’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but then he nods decisively and says, “Show me.” 

Potter glances at him, looking almost nervous. “You don’t have to right now. We can—it’s okay if you need time.”

“No. If you’re ready, then I’m ready,” Draco answers easily and gives a faint smirk. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened in almost a month.”

Potter’s expression breaks into a small smile and he shakes his head, looking exasperated in a fond sort of way. Draco enjoys the way he can ease the tension in Potter’s posture with a small joke.

Potter tilts his head in gesture, pushing away from the counter and leaving the kitchen. Draco hops off the stool and follows him upstairs. He hesitates on the threshold of Potter’s bedroom, which Potter had walked straight into without pause, but when Draco steps in no Sneakoscopes or other alarms go off. 

“Straight to the bedroom then? Well, I suppose I could skip the wining and dining if you’re insistent,” Draco says, falling back on teasing when he feels anxious.

“Draco,” Potter says, and it comes out like a warning.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry, I know this is serious. You just make it too easy for me,” Draco says. “Though I do appreciate a man that’s easy.”

Potter rolls his eyes, but then he says, “Am I going to have to gag you?” And there’s a hint of a smile in his eyes when he looks over at Draco. 

At first Draco’s mouth drops open, and then he can’t stop the grin spreading across his face. Did Potter just flirt back with him? At the very least he’s teasing Draco. Never one to back down from a challenge, Draco replies, “You can try.”

A fluttering sensation creeps into Draco’s stomach from the interested spark he sees in Potter’s eyes, and the way Potter drops his gaze briefly to Draco’s mouth. 

Then Potter shakes his head and turns away. Draco revels in the small victory, whatever it may mean. 

Curiosity has Draco glancing to the Foe Glass on the far wall next to the window. There are still a few shadows of enemies lurking in it, but they are hazy, indistinct shapes. It makes Draco feel a little more at ease, especially after all of what Potter just revealed to him. 

Meanwhile, Potter is standing in front of the wall next to his closet. He waves his hand at it, and a hidden door reveals itself. Draco produces a curious note in the back of his throat. 

Potter taps on the door with his forefinger and it swings open to reveal a small square of a room containing a Pensieve and shelves of phials that are filled with the silvery, wispy forms of what look to be memories.

Potter waves a hand at the Pensieve and it glides out of the cupboard smoothly, pedestal and all. He takes a vial from one of the shelves and unstoppers it, about to tip it into the Pensieve, but stops and looks up at Draco.

“Do you know what potions I was using? Was it—did Skeeter put it in the book?” he asks.

“No, that wasn’t public record, though she postulated that it was Dreamless Sleep, among others,” Draco says, then with a small cringe he quickly corrects himself, “Oh, except the contraceptives, that was—that was known, I suppose. Apparently, there was a fairly loud shouting match about it at St Mungo’s between you and the Weasley girl.” 

Potter’s expression barely changes, like the subject doesn’t even bother him, and he nods. “The memories won’t look right, won’t feel right to you. But I haven’t messed with them, it’s just—it was the potions. I wasn’t quite—everything was sort of,” Potter struggles to explain and rolls his empty hand around vaguely, “skewed.” 

“Okay,” Draco says slowly. 

“But yeah, Dreamless Sleep, that was—that was the first one. I started taking it after the war, I had nightmares. I took it until the Healers wanted to wean me off and wouldn’t give me any more. Once I was off it and the dreams returned, they were worse,” Potter says. “For a while after I couldn’t sleep, and then when I was able to sleep I would sleep for long periods without being able to wake up. So I went back on the Dreamless Sleep, Apparated to different shops around the UK that would sell to me. Eventually found a dealer in London that I could get it under the table from regularly.”

Draco nods and listens attentively, mildly surprised by Potter’s candid explanation of his addiction. 

“The problem though, was that it was becoming less and less effective, and slowly my dreams started seeping back in. The sleep I was getting from the potions wasn’t right, wasn’t natural, it started to wear on me where I’d be tired all the time, feel like I hadn’t really slept. I started taking a mix of sleeping, awakening, and focusing potions to try and counter it, to keep functioning.”

Draco whistles. He knows how dangerous mixing those potions is and how messed up that would make someone. “Christ, Potter.”

Potter just nods. “Yeah. It made me hallucinate at times. Things never felt right, so the memories won’t either.”

“Okay,” he says, and it feels like such an inadequate response, but he has no idea how else to respond.

“This is my memory after finding the first DB, fair warning,” he says. 

Draco nods, and Potter watches him a second longer, then pours the memory into the Pensieve. Draco watches the memory swirl around like liquid smoke in the basin, then slowly settle into a hazy picture.

Draco is about to let himself fall into it, then he stops and glances back up at Potter. “Are you going in with me?”

Potter’s mouth twists to one side briefly and he shakes his head. 

“Alright.” Draco takes a slow breath, then looks down at the Pensieve and lets himself descend into Potter’s memory. 

Draco’s world shifts and reorients. His feet touch down gently onto a paved slope leading up to a small cottage. He’s surrounded by gently rolling hills dotted with shrubs and the occasional line of trees. Potter and Ron are walking ahead of him on the path, and Draco hurries to follow after. 

“...said they don’t know who he is. The owners were on holiday, and he was squatting in the empty house. They came home early, otherwise the vic wouldn’t have been found for another month or so,” Ron is saying as they turn off the trail and head down around behind the house. “Lucky break.”

“Lucky for us, anyway,” Potter mutters in response. 

They move down a path behind the house and come upon a grisly scene. A young man’s body is stretched out surrounded by three rings of blood runes. His wrists and feet are tied and blood is pooled around him from cuts in his wrists. The corpse is white and bloated, staring up at the sky unseeingly with a film over his eyes. 

Carrion birds circle overhead, but there is no damage to the corpse from them. Though they might circle at the smell of a cadaver, even buzzards won’t eat a body that’s been touched by Dark Magic. 

Draco looks away from the corpse to Potter. He looks much younger and smaller. The shadow of Potter’s decline is present in his features in small ways, like the dark circles under his eyes and the faint hollowness to his cheeks. His hair isn’t as long, though it is untidy and starting to grow past his ears. He’s sporting a six o’clock shadow instead of the beard. 

Potter’s expression is hard, like he’s masking his feelings similarly to how he does so at the present. Still, Draco notices the cracks in the mask—the way he’s clenching his jaw and the way his hands curl into fists until he consciously relaxes them. He’s clearly bothered by the sight in front of him, which most would be, but a seasoned Auror should be better equipped to handle it. Draco’s not sure what year it is, exactly, Potter didn’t specify, but he estimates that Potter must be around twenty-one.

Draco notices the memory trembling, and becoming blurred for a second. He glances around the area as it trembles in and out of focus, and then Draco is falling out of the memory.

When he resurfaces, Potter is sat on the bed and he looks up at Draco when he sees him moving. 

“Ready for the next?” Potter asks, and Draco nods. 

Potter puts in the next memory and Draco falls into it. 

The next memory is less clear. It starts with Potter on the street, talking to someone. Potter’s state is much degraded. His hair is longer, his beard is more unkempt and his eyes are bloodshot.

The memory trembles and moves in and out of focus, and then it jumps forward in time. Potter is talking to someone else, another witness who is telling him about their missing friend. 

The memory feels unsteady as Draco tries to focus on it. It keeps jumping to different times where Potter spoke to witnesses about people going missing, people seen being taken by a man in strange clothes.

When Draco surfaces from it he swallows down a deep breath, then nods at Potter for the next.

The third memory is of Potter finding Ellis. And time starts to move strangely as Draco watches their fight in a park in slow motion, then he feels pulled along sharply through space when Potter grabs Ellis as he Apparates. 

The place they jump to is dark and dank, and there are rows of cages with people imprisoned there. Their faces are gaunt and they look too skinny. Draco tries to watch the memory of Potter looking around and seeing these people, and the way his expression turns from shock into pure rage. 

The memory trembles and loses focus, and then it feels like it’s jumping forward sporadically in time, not big leaps, just little seconds that don’t exist where they should. 

Ellis raises his wand and casts a cloud of poison that moves through the cells and chokes the prisoners to their death. Potter shouts and the memory shakes so badly that Draco thinks he’s going to get kicked out of it. There’s a flash of red light, then the memory ends and Draco comes up gasping.

Potter’s expression looks pinched as he watches Draco gulp down ragged breaths to steady himself.

After a minute Draco sighs and says, “Give me the next.”

The fourth memory is of Potter finding the next sacrifice after he’s been ousted by the Aurors. His appearance is even more haggard than before—his hair and beard are longer, and his eyes are sunken and dark.

As Potter walks through an abandoned warehouse and examines the scene of another dead body surrounded by blood runes, the memory slows like Potter’s perception of time was off. 

Instead of the corpse being splayed out in the position the victim died in, this time its body has been tied up into a kneeling position with its hands held up in supplication, looking like it’s begging Potter for help. Dried trails of blood paint the victim’s forearms.

Potter’s expression is dark and the memory trembles and twists under Draco’s feet unsteadily before he’s thrown out of it.

The fifth memory is actually collection of flashes of memories—Potter on the road on his motorbike, Potter in dark and dingy places talking to street urchins, Potter interrogating Dark wizards with a brutality Draco never would have expected, Potter shaking out his exhaustion and chugging a lime green potion, then Potter getting ready for bed and shooting a deep violet potion, and Potter finding more bodies on his travels. 

As Draco moves through them the sense of time warps. Lights get too bright or they drag through the memories like coloured ribbons. The colours of the sky shift and change, looking blue then purple then red, and Draco can see Potter blinking and shaking out his head, trying to clear it of the hallucinations. 

Draco can see Potter deteriorating further, not only in his appearance but also in his mental state with the way his memories start to take on a surreal quality. The way the world starts to drag and shift and blend makes Draco feel as if he’s walking through an Impressionist painting. 

When Draco comes out of the fifth memory, it takes him a moment to reorient. He’s not unaccustomed to using Pensieves, but falling into the memory of someone while they were high is like tumbling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland where the laws of nature no longer apply. Leaving the memories feels like being yanked back onto solid ground while his head is still spinning from the fall.

“Christ, Potter,” Draco says after he comes out of the memory, clinging to the edge of the Pensieve to keep his feet.

“I know.” Potter says, subdued. One look at him and Draco knows what Potter is thinking. He’s thinking that Draco is talking about his drug habit and how poorly he looked. 

Draco needs to nip that in the bud right now. “No, not that. I can’t believe you went through all of this by yourself. I can’t believe that you were even functioning, let alone finding leads on cold cases and—and chasing and catching Dark wizards, and just, all of it.”

Potter blinks at Draco. His eyebrows scrunch up adorably, the way they do when he’s trying to understand something. From Potter’s reaction, it occurs to Draco that after all this time, Potter hadn’t thought that he _shouldn’t_ have been going it alone or that any of what he’d been capable of was remarkable.

“Potter, I think you might be the most bloody stubborn, brilliant man I’ve ever met,” Draco says, completely in awe of what he had seen in the memory, of everything Potter managed to do, especially drugged as he was. 

Potter huffs in part disbelief, part amusement. “Can I get that in writing?”

Draco shakes his head and smacks the back of his hand against Potter’s arm. “No. And I rather doubt you’ll ever hear me say it again, so best savour the moment.”

Draco takes a deep breath, and then he dips into the sixth memory. 

Draco follows Potter as he walks through an abandoned shipping yard. Time skips oddly and they are in a building, which starts trembling around them. 

The memory stops and feels normal for a second when Potter turns a corner and he sees the scene of the ritual, of a woman tied inside three rings of blood runes while one man is casting over her, and a few other men scattered around watching and keeping guard. 

A flash of a hex flies by Potter’s head, and then Potter turns to duel with a wizard.

“Get the Magnate out!” The cry echoes clear as a bell around the memory, and then the images of the memory swirl in strange colours and time jumps around while Potter exchanges hexes with two other wizards. 

When Potter ducks behind a crate for cover, the Dark wizards turn and flee and Potter moves to run after them. The edges of the memory swirl and blend as he races through the warehouse. 

When he passes by the victim in the runes, she groans and shifts, and Potter comes to a dead stop to look at her. Shock runs through Draco when he recognises the woman as May. 

Potter stares at her with astonishment at finding her alive, and then he looks in the direction the wizards fled. His expression twists in frustration and indecision. 

The memory trembles and slows. A bright light emerges from May’s chest and Draco watches as it becomes so blinding that it turns everything in the memory white. 

It feels like standing on a roller coaster with the way the memory is twisting and swirling. He thinks he sees the outline of Potter, and then the outline becomes more distinct as the light pushes into Potter’s body, and then Draco is tumbling out of the memory. 

Draco gasps and grips at the base of the Pensieve to keep himself upright. He stares down at the swirling white substance of the memories, and then looks over at Potter. 

Once he has caught his breath he asks, “May was the last victim you saved?” 

Potter nods. 

“What…” Draco trails off and wets his lips, then tries again, “What happened in there? That light…” 

Potter chews on his lip for a second, looking over Draco before he answers, “I think that was her magical core.”

Draco blinks. “She’s a witch? I thought she was a Muggle?”

Potter’s mouth twists down as he hesitates, and then he explains his theory. “She was raised Muggle, but she is a witch. Or was a witch, I’m not sure now. I think this ritual the Magnate uses pulls the magical core out of a person.”

“But that’s...that’s not possible,” Draco argues and shakes his head.

Potter shrugs. “I think that’s what happened. And I think when they left midway through, whatever they were going to do to May’s magic got interrupted. I think it needed a new container, and it sort of...fell into me.”

“Fell into you,” Draco repeats flatly.

Potter winces, like he knows how crazy he sounds. But when Draco thinks about it, it does make sense...the emergence of Potter’s boost in power and his lack of control over it, seemingly out of nowhere. Draco is quiet as he tries to absorb the thought.

“Are there more?” Draco asks after a few minutes of silence.

“One more,” Potter answers, and adds the last memory to the Pensieve for Draco.

The memory is of Potter and Ron in Ron’s living room. Potter is explaining what he knows, laying out all of his evidence and everything he has discovered on the case, but Ron is looking at him in disbelief and suspicion. 

“I looked for the DBs you sent our way. We never found any of them.”

“They were there!” Potter argues wildly. His hair is long and unkempt, his beard unshaven, and his eyes are wild and set deep in his face. He looks like one of those crazy doomsday criers on the streets.

Potter explains his whole theory about May and her magic, and about what is really happening with the killings. Ron looks at him like he’s insane. 

“Harry, you’re not thinking clearly on this. You said you’ve been hallucinating, how do you know you’re not imagining it?”

“Because I know I’m not crazy!” Potter yells. “I need you to trust me, Ron.”

Ron grimaces, then with a resolute expression he asks, “Are you clean?”

It gives Potter pause, and he grits his teeth. 

“Are you still using?” Ron asks again sternly.

“Yes,” Potter growls out, “but that doesn’t change the facts. People are dying, I know this is real!”

“You can’t know that it’s real. I want to trust you, mate, I really do. But I can’t trust you when you’re using.”

Potter tries to argue further, but Ron won’t hear any of it. Ron tells him that he will always have his back, but right now that means getting him into rehab, not feeding the obsession that’s killing him.

The memory fades out and Draco is dropping into Potter’s bedroom once more. 

It’s a lot to take in. Draco doesn’t know if he can believe it, and maybe he doesn’t want to believe it’s possible to steal someone’s magic like that. He understands now why Potter wanted to show him the memories. 

Potter wanted Draco to see how surreal his perception of what was happening really was. He wants Draco to see what Ron’s take on it was, and how Potter can’t trust his own experience because of how frequently he was hallucinating at the time.

Draco steps back from the Pensieve and crumples to sitting on the edge of Potter’s bed. His mind and body both feel exhausted from the experience. 

“I see why you wanted me to watch them,” Draco says after a minute, and Potter nods. 

Draco is quiet for another minute as he thinks about the memories. He wants to be able to tell Potter that he believes him, but he needs time to process. He wonders again how Potter could have even been functioning, let alone successfully investigating a case. 

He glances at Potter curiously, then asks, “That thing you do? With your hands.” Potter nods. “Is that...why do you do that?”

“It’s a reality check. Even now, sometimes it can be hard to distinguish if I’m awake or dreaming. In dreams my hands don’t look right, I don’t usually have the right amount of fingers,” Potter explains. “Clocks too. Any writing, actually. It looks distorted, illegible. And mirrors. My reflection never looks right in dreams.”

Draco nods, and they sit quietly on the bed for another minute.

Potter gets up as he waves the Pensieve back into its cupboard. When the Pensieve is back in its spot, Potter steps closer to the secret cupboard and reaches into it. He opens one of the built-in drawers and pulls something out. Draco can’t see what it is, until after Potter shuts the drawer and turns toward him.

“Here,” Potter says, and Draco freezes. 

In Potter’s hand, held out to Draco loosely in his grip, is a wand. It’s not just any wand though, Draco would recognise it anywhere. It’s _his_ wand. 

_Ten inches, Hawthorn, unicorn hair,_ the familiar description slides through Draco’s mind in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Ollivander’s. 

It’s not just Draco’s old wand though, it’s _the_ wand—the wand that killed Voldemort. Or the wand that Potter used to rebound—whatever, it doesn’t matter. It’s the wand. His old wand, the wand he grew up with, the wand he used throughout Hogwarts. The wand that so easily abandoned him for Potter. 

“Draco?” His name is spoken softly, but it still makes him start. 

He looks up at Potter wildly, only realising then how he’s been staring wide-eyed at the thing, clutching his hand over his breast pocket, clinging to the shape of the wand there— _his_ wand, his real wand. A wand that would never betray him, a wand that—a wand that is broken.

Potter’s expression is one of mild concern. He’s still holding the wand out to him, like it’s nothing to give it over to Draco, like handing it back to him holds no significance. And maybe it doesn’t—to Potter.

When another moment goes by without Draco taking the wand from him, Potter’s brows furrow and his hand starts to drop a little. “Do you not want it?”

“I—no—I mean, yes. Of course I do,” Draco says quickly, reaching out for it. He hesitates before taking it, his fingers hovering above the wand—Potter’s not even holding onto it, he just has it laying across his open hand—then he picks it up delicately, drawing it back to himself and looking down at it. 

Draco is somewhat surprised that its smooth, cool texture feels familiar to him, that after all these years without it, he still carries the sense memory of it. The wand itself has no reaction to the handoff. While Draco doesn’t feel its rejection, there aren’t any sparks of magic like when he had held it for the first time. 

When he looks up from the wand, Potter is still looking at Draco with curiosity and mild concern. 

Draco is surprised Potter kept it all these years, and that thought makes him furrow his brow and look at Potter questioningly. “You had it all this time?”

Potter nods.

“Why didn’t you give it to me earlier? You knew I couldn’t use my wand, even before it was broken.” 

“Guess it didn’t occur to me,” Potter says with a small shrug. His face is carefully blank, and Draco can’t tell whether he’s lying or being honest. He’s not sure what it might mean either way, so he lets the subject drop and tucks the wand into his forearm holster. 

He tells himself that he should feel glad to be able to do magic again, after all this time without it.


	7. Chapter 7

The following night, Potter surprises him at dinner by pulling out a bottle of Scotch. He holds it up in question, and Draco nods. 

“Ice?” Potter asks, and Draco shakes his head.

Potter grabs two glasses with a couple of the fingers of his hand holding the bottle and they all clink against each other. He uses his free hand to pick up a plate of thick sliced bread and jerks his chin at their bowls in gestures. Draco picks up their dinner and follows Potter out to the living room, setting their bowls of shakshuka down on the coffee table and then dropping down into his armchair—his armchair, not Potter’s. Draco let Potter have his chair back when he decided to stop annoying Potter at every opportunity.

Potter sets the plate of bread down between their bowls, puts the glasses down and pours one out, then looks to Draco. “One finger? Two?” 

“Three,” Draco says instantly. Potter raises an eyebrow at that so Draco tells him, “That is the first alcohol I’ve seen in a month. If you think I’m not getting drunk tonight, you’ve greatly underestimated the situation.”

The corner of Potter’s mouth ticks up in a small smile, and Draco ignores the way it makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He pours out three fingers for Draco, then hands him the glass. 

Draco takes it, then waits for Potter to settle into his armchair before he holds his glass up expectantly. Potter looks at the glass, then him, before he picks up his own. Draco makes sure to hold Potter’s eye contact as they clink their glasses together. He’s certainly not about to wish either of them seven years bad sex. 

They both take a sip and Draco sighs in happiness at the flavour and the familiar feel of it burning its way down his throat. He’s faintly surprised that it’s a fairly decent Scotch, too. 

Though Draco soon finds that Scotch and shakshuka do not go well together, especially since Potter’s made it quite spicy so it’s a double whammy of burning sensations. He focuses on eating first.

Potter puts on the next episode of Battlestar Galactica and they watch in relative silence, except for Draco occasionally complaining about Potter trying to burn his sinuses out. Potter merely seems amused, and maybe it’s because he knows Draco doesn’t actually mind all that much, he just can’t help himself from making commentary. Draco’s never had shakshuka before and he finds that he rather likes it—like most of what Potter makes. 

Once the food is gone, they start going through the bottle more rapidly. Draco is pleasantly tipsy when he turns to Potter and asks a question that’s been nagging at him since yesterday. “Since…” Draco waves his hand around in sort of large, encompassing gesture. “Since all of that, you’ve been living out here? As a Muggle?”

The next episode of their show starts playing automatically, and Potter picks up the clicker and pauses it. He looks over at Draco curiously before he answers, “Not here specifically, not for the whole time.” 

“But you never returned to the Wizarding World?” Draco presses, and Potter shakes his head. “Why not?” 

Potter’s mouth twists briefly in a wry sort of smile. He looks away from Draco, eyes searching around the room as if he’ll find the answers hidden amongst the leaves in one of his many houseplants. 

“A lot of reasons, I guess.” Is what he lands on.

Draco watches Potter as he pours another two fingers in his glass. “Like what?”

Potter looks back at him. “Why? You want to write the rest of the biography?” 

Draco snorts and smacks his hand lightly against Potter’s shoulder. “No. Git.” Then he stops and thinks about it, tapping a finger against his lips and amending, “Actually, I bet I could make a decent sum if I did.”

Potter rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his glass.

Draco watches him, thinking he might be looking at Potter with an expression that’s too fond, but the Scotch has him feeling tingly and loose and he doesn’t try to fight it. 

After a moment he says, “I wouldn’t though. I’m just curious. It just seems like…” 

Draco trails off, thinking about what his own life had been like at that point. It must have been around the time when he started working undercover, not long after his father died, leaving him with nothing but the rest of the Malfoy fortune and an empty Manor. He had felt like a ghost walking around those halls with no one to talk to except the portraits of his dead ancestors. He had felt nearly dead himself, numb and disconnected from it all. 

When Draco pulls himself out of the memory, Potter is still watching him, eyes hidden behind the glare of the TV on his glasses. The sun had set while they were watching, and now the room is dark, only dimly lit by the screen.

“It seems like you had things worth coming back to,” he finishes. 

Potter hums quietly in acknowledgement and thought. He looks at the TV, paused in an opening scene. His fingers tap a quiet rhythm on his thigh. Draco’s not sure he is going to answer, but after a short silence he does. 

“Yeah. I always meant to, I think. Or I told myself that, anyway. But after I finished rehab I...I guess I was scared to go back. My magic was still erratic, more powerful than I was used to. Even off the potions I didn’t have very good control, and after rehab I had to go to a sleep therapy place. 

“I still have sleeping disorders—will have them permanently—from the damage the potions did. Like I either can’t sleep, or when I do I sleep so deeply it’s near impossible to wake me up. I almost always lucid dream, but I can’t control it and I can’t wake myself up even though I know I’m dreaming,” Potter says. “So, anyway. Even with all the therapy, I was worried if I went back I might hurt someone I care about again.” 

“Again?” Draco asks, brows drawing up. 

Potter winces, like he didn’t mean for Draco to catch on to that or maybe he didn’t mean to say it. 

“Yeah, when I—” Potter starts then stops, sighing and pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes. He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and not looking at Draco as he continues, “When I came back with May, that last time, I—I’d fallen asleep in the waiting room in St Mungo’s. Andromeda came by with Teddy for—I don’t even know why. To see me? To convince me to go to rehab? I don’t know.”

Potter rubs his hand over his mouth and down his beard a few times. After a short pause he says, “He tried to wake me from a nightmare, and I sent him flying across the room. Knocked him out cold. I thought—I thought I’d killed him.”

The way Potter’s voice breaks has Draco putting a hand on Potter’s leg and squeezing gently. He keeps it there while Potter looks down at his feet. 

After a moment, Potter moves his head back up and looks over at Draco, giving him a small, if somewhat forced, smile. Draco gives his leg a last, reassuring squeeze and lets go. 

“Lucky that we were in St Mungo’s,” Potter says. “He was fine. And honestly? I probably wouldn’t have gone to rehab when I did if it hadn’t happened.”

Draco watches him as he falls into silence, then he guesses, “You didn’t feel safe being around other people?” Potter shakes his head. “You stayed with May, though?”

Potter shakes his head again, this time with an amused huff. “No, I told her to leave me alone. She wouldn’t go.”

“Good thing too, otherwise you might have gone full Dumbledore with the beard,” Draco says and brushes his hand over the side of Potter’s jaw, across his stubble. It feels nicer than he imagined, and he wants to touch it again but he stops himself. 

Potter looks over at him, eyebrows moving up briefly in surprise. Draco’s always been affectionate and tactile by nature, but it gets worse when he’s drunk, and he’s going to have to keep a close eye on it around Potter and his stupid, handsome scruff. 

“Sorry, I get touchy-feely when I’m drunk,” Draco says, though he’s not sorry at all. He leans his elbow on the arm of his chair and puts his chin on it so he can resist the temptation to touch Potter again. He holds his empty cup out. “Pour me another.” 

Potter looks like he’s fighting a smile as he picks up the bottle and pours about another three or four fingers into Draco’s glass. 

“So, is it my turn to ask a question?” Potter asks, surprising Draco with the request.

Draco makes a small noise in the back of his throat. He sits back in his chair and considers it. “Go ahead,” he says and waves a hand magnanimously. 

“What happened the day you ran off?” 

Draco’s stomach sinks like a rock. Just thinking about that day makes his joints ache. He unconsciously brings a hand up and feels for the shape of his broken wand tucked away in his breast pocket. 

“I...well,” he begins and then pauses as he considers how to answer. “Let’s just say that the Muggles may or may not have a warrant out for my arrest.” 

Potters eyebrows jump up sharply and then come down, furrowing as he regards Draco critically. Draco shifts his eyes away and takes a sip of his whiskey. 

“What did you do?” Potter asks, and the wording of the question makes Draco turn back angrily. 

“I didn’t do anything!” he insists a little too loudly. “I was minding my own bloody business. That police woman attacked _me,_ I was merely defending myself.”

“Did you hex her?”

“Of course not! The bitch broke my wand, anyway,” Draco huffs defensively. “If you hadn’t—hadn’t verbally attacked me, none of it would have happened.”

“Like you hadn’t said the same or worse to me?” Potter asks a bit incredulously. “Yeah, you deserved to hear it. You’d been a right prick ever since you showed up.” 

Draco clenches his fist, quelling the urge to bite back. He knows it won’t do any good and he doesn’t want to break the tenuous trust they’ve started to build by saying something he would regret later. 

Instead, Draco lets out a slow breath through his mouth, then says quietly, “I know. I said I was sorry. I am sorry.”

The tense set of Potter’s shoulders slowly relaxes, and then he sighs out, “I’m sorry too.” 

Draco rubs his lips together in thought and glances over at Potter. Potter is looking down into his whiskey glass, then he looks over and catches Draco’s gaze. 

Draco holds it for a moment, then lets out a long, quiet sigh and fixes his gaze onto the television screen. “I said a lot of things I didn’t mean,” he begins, knowing that he apologised but he never explained his behaviour, and for some reason now the thought that Potter thinks he did it just to be nasty irks him. “It just…I didn’t—it’s no excuse, but I wasn’t actually trying to hurt you. Or, well, I was, but I wasn’t hurting you to hurt you.”

Potter raises an eyebrow.

Draco huffs and rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m not explaining this right. I did what I did to get a rise out of you. When I came here and found you like this, all—all withdrawn and empty and—and _hollow,_ it just...it scared me.” 

Draco brings his gaze up from his drink and finds Potter watching him. 

“I understand—or I think I understand better now. But it was like you were this, non-entity. You. _You,_ ” Draco emphasises. “The Harry Potter I knew was—was fire, and life, and a pugnacious little prick. He never would have let me get away with any of that, and when you did I just didn’t know how to handle it. I needed to find out if you still existed somewhere in there.”

When holding Potter’s gaze becomes too much, too intense, Draco looks away again. He sips at his Scotch, then says, “So I’m sorry. I couldn’t stand seeing you like that, and because I am a piece of shit I tried to coax a reaction out of you by doing what I’ve always done best.”

Draco is determinedly not looking at Potter now. The silence stretches on and on until Draco can’t take it anymore and he glances over. Potter is still staring at him, but now his lips are barely parted, like maybe he wanted to say something but then didn’t. 

It’s hard to tell Potter’s expression from the general dimness of the room, the glare on his glasses and the harsh light from the TV striking one side of his face.

“I’m…” Potter begins, then trails off. He tries again, “It’s better like this. Easier to control. I’m good.”

“Are you, though?” Draco asks hesitantly. 

“Trust me. I’m much better now than I was.”

“Better, sure. But are you happy? Being so shut down emotionally? Living out here, on your own?”

Potter looks away, and he is quiet a moment before answering, “I don’t know. I’m okay. I think that for most people life isn’t a happy ending. I’m content, and that’s enough.”

“Okay. All of this—living alone, away from your friends, away from magic, hiding behind wards—I can see that you’re used to it, and that it accommodates your fear. But I also think that you think it’s necessary when it’s not. You still have friends and family and people who love you, people who would welcome you back. People who, I would think, you would be happier being around.” Draco can’t help saying it, because he would give anything to have that back again for himself.

Potter is quiet, and Draco waits, giving him a moment to respond.

When he doesn’t, Draco says, “You get to choose what you want your life to be like, Potter.” 

Potter snorts quietly. “I don’t think it’s quite that simple. They don’t trust me, and I don’t trust myself. I don’t see that changing.”

“Why not?” Draco asks. “Life is change. Just because you’re stuck in an eddy doesn’t mean the river isn’t still moving.”

“What about you, then? You’ve spent more than a third of your life working undercover, pretending to be what everyone thinks you are, but you actually aren’t,” Potter says, easily turning things around on Draco.

The words give him pause, and he spends a moment in silence trying to read what he can of Potter’s face. It’s not surprising to him that it’s the truth, but he is surprised that Potter could already know him so well—that he could so easily see the foundation of Draco’s whole adult life. 

“How—” the words catch in his throat, and Draco has to swallow and try again. “How would you know?” 

One corner of Potter’s mouth ticks up in a small smile. “I’ve seen enough of you to know that you don’t carry real evil in your heart.”

Potter’s words hit an unexpected nerve in Draco, and he has to look away for fear of what emotion is showing on his face. 

Draco knows he has never been a good person, but with his upbringing and his history in the war the part of the villain seemed like an easier role to slip into. In truth he has always hated violence and harming others. 

He had never wanted to truly hurt anyone, but he had to to survive. With every person he had hurt he buried that part of himself a little bit deeper and a little bit deeper, until that reflex that told him it was wrong, that cringed and shied away, that twisted his stomach in disgust became more and more muffled until he could pretend that he didn’t even feel it anymore. 

“It’s different,” Draco forces himself to say. “My family is dead. You have more to live for.”

“Life is change,” Potter parrots his own words back at him, and Draco hates him for doing it. “I don’t think you’re entirely happy with your life the way it is either. You can quit, move, make new friends. You can make a new family.”

Except it’s kind of hard to make a new family when you’re fucking one of the bad guys you’re spying on. Draco doesn’t say that though.

When Draco doesn’t respond, Potter asks him softly, “Is there nothing else you want from life?”

Draco scoffs. He rubs a hand over his mouth and looks off, away from Potter and the television and the remnants of the dinner they cooked together, teasing and arguing and bumping shoulders over it.

Draco inhales a long, steadying breath, then looks back to Potter and says evenly, “No. There’s no space in my life for a family or children. Maybe once I had thought that I would have those things, that I would want them, but not anymore. Not with—with how the war went, with being gay, with my work. It just—it’s not in the cards for me.”

Draco catches the way Potter’s eyebrows twitch up on the word ‘gay’. Surely it can’t surprise him—Draco’s sexuality, not with the way Draco has been openly flirting with him and ogling him during his workouts. 

“What about you?” Draco quickly tacks on the question, not wanting to hear what Potter might say about Draco’s life choices and hoping to turn the spotlight of this conversation away from himself. “Don’t you want more than this?”

Potter shrugs.

“Isn’t the hero supposed to ride off into the sunset with the princess?” Draco teases. 

“Tried that. It didn’t take,” Potter says wryly. He shifts his gaze away from Draco and instead focuses on the paused television screen. 

After a moment, he attempts a real answer. “I guess I don’t know. When I was a kid I thought I would want what my parents had, a partner, a kid, a home. Ginny wanted kids. We actually…” Potter swallows, glancing at Draco. “We had a scare early on—or at least I was scared by it—where she was late and thought she’d got pregnant.”

“You didn’t want her to be?” Draco asks. 

Potter shakes his head. “I was terrified. Made me realise that I didn’t want kids. How could I raise a child when I could barely take care of myself? I would have been a shit father.”

Draco can’t help thinking that the mere fact of Potter being aware of his shortcomings and not wanting to jump right into child rearing would have made him a better parent than most. 

“Did she…” Draco begins hesitantly, not sure how sore of a subject this still is for Potter. “Did she know you felt that way?”

The side of Potter’s mouth twists up in a humourless smile. “No. I didn’t tell her how I felt about it. After the pregnancy scare, Ginny wanted to start trying for real. I should have just talked to her, but instead I started taking contraceptive potions in secret. They weren’t exactly Healer-approved. I was worried someone would find out and it would get back to Ginny.”

Draco cringes inwardly at imagining what sort of ingredients might have been in those back-alley contraceptives. Potter goes quiet for a moment, running his hand over his beard a few times. 

“I guess I thought that she would leave me if she knew,” he says. “She came from a big family and she wanted a big family, and even though I didn’t I was scared to lose that.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter anymore to him, though Draco is sure that it does. “Lost her anyway. I never blamed her for wanting the divorce. She was right to leave, I hurt her.”

Draco’s eyebrows jump up. 

Potter glances over at him, then quickly amends, “Not physically. Just, you know. From not being emotionally available. My obsession with the case, my addiction and hiding it from her. Would disappear for long periods, and she would get so furious with me…” 

Draco watches the movement of Potter’s throat as he swallows, then looks up at his eyes which are fixed unseeingly on the TV screen. Potter hums quietly, then shakes his head as if divesting himself of the memories. 

“I’m sterile now anyway, from the potions, so.” Potter shrugs, as if that’s that. 

Draco blinks, taken aback by how casually Potter drops such a bomb. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he’s not sure how to respond so he closes it. Draco studies Potter’s profile, and then forces himself to tear his eyes away. 

He looks down at his glass of Scotch and shoots what’s left in it, then leans forward and picks the bottle up to pour himself another. He looks at Potter’s glass, which is almost empty, and Potter holds it out so Draco can fill it as well.

“Enough of this melancholy,” Draco says lightly. “I didn’t want to get drunk so we could bemoan our sad lives. Put on something funny.” 

Out the corner of his eye he can see when Potter looks away from him and complies. 

Potter puts on a comedian and the mood quickly shifts to something much lighter. Draco doesn’t understand most of the jokes, things about Muggle politics and lifestyles, and he makes Potter pause and explain them to him. It probably ruins the joke for Potter, but Draco finds it endlessly amusing. 

By the end of the night, the video is paused around the thirty minute mark, and they spent more time having it paused while they argued than they did actually watching it. They finish the bottle and Draco is far more drunk than Potter, but that’s because Potter drinks so slowly that Draco had about two thirds of the bottle himself. 

“You’re the lightweight, Potter,” Draco informs him as Potter carries him upstairs. Draco bet him he couldn’t carry Draco on his back all the way up to his room and Potter, the fool, fell for it. Now he’s getting a free ride straight to his bed. 

Potter grunts in response, which Draco takes as agreement. 

The house is dimly lit with cool moonlight coming in through the windows. With his hands full of Draco, Potter doesn’t turn on any lights as they go, but there is a light source behind them—a small radiant orb Potter conjured unconsciously follows them up the stairs, throwing their shadows on the wall ahead of them and shaping them into some monstrous hunchback.

“Mmm, never see you drink,” Draco mumbles into Potter’s skin and nuzzles along the nape of his neck and behind his ear, breathing him in.

Potter smells good, and his hair is surprisingly soft, and he’s strong enough to carry Draco piggyback up a flight of stairs. Draco kind of wants the stairs to last forever. 

“I drink a lot,” Draco admits, tightening his arms briefly around Potter’s neck to feel the muscles underneath them, then he slides one hand up Potter’s neck into his beard. 

It’s grown some since May made him cut it, but it’s not even an inch long, not long enough for Draco to run his fingers through. That’s okay though, he still likes how it feels and rubs his hand back and forth over it, with the hair and then against it, smooth and prickly. 

He enjoys the sensation and briefly forgets what he was saying.

“Bet I could drink you under the table,” Draco challenges when he remembers his train of thought, “if you could even keep up.”

Potter snorts out a short laugh and Draco feels how his chest shakes with it. Then they get to the top of the stairs, and Potter walks into Draco’s room. 

When he gets to the bed he turns and backs up to the edge of it, squatting low enough for Draco’s arse to hit the mattress. He lets go of the tight grip he has under Draco’s knees, then pries Draco’s hands off his neck and jaw. 

Once Draco releases him, Potter steps away and Draco flops back onto the bed inelegantly. Potter turns and looks down at him. 

“You made it,” Draco tells him, throwing his arms up in a cheer. 

The room is dark, lit only from Potter’s conjured light in the hallway. Potter is cloaked in shadow, backlit as he is by the soft light behind him. It makes it harder to read his face, but Draco thinks he sees the signs of a smile there. 

“Guess you win our bet,” Draco slurs as Potter picks up one of his legs, holding it up with one hand while the other slides Draco’s shoe off, then he does the same with its pair.

“What do I win?” Potter asks in an amused tone as he pulls the covers back, grabs both of Draco’s ankles and drags them over the bed, putting him at a better angle for sleeping. 

“What d’you want? A goodnight kiss?” he offers. 

“How about,” Potter begins slowly, putting one hand on the bed next to Draco’s head and leaning over him. His face is close enough now that Draco can feel the air shift when he speaks. “Just don’t puke and choke yourself in your sleep?” he finishes while reaching across Draco to grab the far pillow. He turns Draco onto his side and tucks the pillow up against his back under the covers.

“Boring,” Draco drawls, but then he sighs contentedly, suddenly aware of how his head is sinking into his pillow. The world is swinging back and forth, but it’s worse when he closes his eyes, so Draco forces them back open, not liking the uncomfortable lurch his stomach made when they were closed. 

Potter is still there, right next to the bed, reaching for Draco. Draco gives him a questioning hum, but Potter doesn’t answer. He picks up Draco’s left wrist, delicately shifts the sleeve of Draco’s robe back, and unbuckles the holster. Draco watches this, thinking maybe he should object, but doesn’t. Potter sets the holster and wand on the bedside stand, then turns and walks out. 

Draco tries closing his eyes again, but the world is still rocking and he pries them back open. The problem is that his eyelids are so heavy they keep drooping of their own accord, regardless of how his stomach feels. 

He thinks he hears Potter come back at some point, followed by the clink of a dish being set down, and then the room goes fully dark behind his eyelids.

◊ ◊ ◊

The next morning Draco finds that Potter left a glass of water for him, which he gratefully downs. He relieves his bladder, then eagerly jumps into the shower to wash the gross feeling of being drunk and hungover off him. His hangover isn’t the worst he’s had, but his stomach aches from the abuse and his brain feels too large for his skull.

He missed Potter’s morning routine, and he wonders if Potter worked out or if he might have skipped it after last night. Draco doubts that he skipped it, in fact he’s probably barely hungover. 

Draco could kiss Potter when he finds a plate of breakfast left for him and kept warm under a charm. 

When he makes his way out to the garage, he finds Potter at work as usual. They exchange greetings as Draco moves to his usual spot and picks up his book, but when he looks down at the words he discovers that he doesn’t feel like reading today, not with a hangover. 

Draco sighs and drops the book back onto his chair. Potter glances up at him in question, but Draco ignores him.

Draco goes into the office and checks the calendar. It’s the seventh of May now, a Saturday. Draco already knows this, he’s been keeping better track lately, but it’s reassuring to see that time still exists and is being measured even while he is here, stuck in this state of limbo. 

He wonders if he will still be here for his birthday a month from now. Not that it would matter, Draco hasn’t celebrated his birthday in years. 

Draco looks out the glass office to Potter, who has his head down, diligently focused on his work. He thinks about everything Potter told him and showed him yesterday, and realises how truly lonely Potter must have been all these years. Draco has no one left to him, so he understands solitude, but he thinks that in a way Potter’s situation might be more tragic. 

Potter has friends and a found family, and he is a godfather of at least one child that Draco knows of. He isn’t alone because he has no one; he is alone because he feels like he doesn’t belong with them anymore.

Draco is pretty sure he would know by now if anyone kept in contact with Potter, but the only person he seems to talk to is May. Sure, Potter made a lot of bad decisions, but isn’t the point of family to have support? People who will love you and forgive your mistakes? 

Draco thinks about the way Hermione brushed Potter off the other day, about how she told Draco not to get him involved, and how Ron asked Potter not to get too attached. He thinks about the last memory Potter showed him, the way Potter’s expression fell when Ron said he couldn’t trust him.

Something Draco had always been so jealous of was Potter’s friendships—of the close bonds he formed with those around him. Potter flourished and conquered even in the darkest of times because he had people who trusted him and believed in him. Draco can’t imagine what it must have done to him to lose that trust. 

Actually, Draco can imagine it, because it’s sitting right there in front of him—Potter in a lonely, taciturn state of self-exile, and removed from everything that once mattered to him. 

Draco thinks even farther back, to what he read in Skeeter’s biography. He thinks about the abuse Potter suffered growing up with those Muggles—being told he was rubbish, getting locked away for being different, receiving no affection at all. Draco can only imagine how freeing and fantastic it must have been when Potter found out he was a wizard and that there was this whole other world that existed that he had a place in. 

It was a place where Potter was able to grow, to make friends and find adventure. Any time those friends and that world was threatened, Potter stood up and defended it because that’s who he was. He was loyalty and compassion and determination. 

Potter gave everything he had, even his life, to their world. And what happened? Their world chewed him up and spit him out. 

And Draco had been one of them. He had been a part of that ugly mob, lapping up the press coverage, finding sadistic pleasure in seeing Saint Potter, the highest example of moral character in their society, fall so far and so hard. He had been one of the many who lined up to get their hands on the unauthorised biography of their fallen saviour so he could delight in the details of Potter’s painful story. 

Draco’s gut twists in guilt and shame at that. He felt a similar shame when he read Potter’s story and learned what he had actually gone through, but it’s different now that he knows him and is faced with the reality of the man in that story.

Draco aches for him. He never once thought to consider it before, but now that he knows the extent and the reasons of Potter’s addiction, he’d bet his whole fortune that Potter had been suffering severely from PTSD after the war. 

Instead of taking care of himself and getting treatment, Potter had gone full steam ahead, probably doing what he thought he was expected to do. 

Before Voldemort’s body had even gone cold he’d thrown himself into a serious relationship with his best friend’s sister and become an Auror where he’d only continued to expose himself to more death and darkness—to more trauma. 

Everyone, especially Potter, had expected him to slip into a normal life—get married, have three kids and a stable career by the time he was twenty three. Potter tried to be normal, but when he couldn’t, when he was struggling and suffering, he had hidden his problems because they made him abnormal. They made him—what was it his Muggle family had called him?—a freak. 

All these years Draco assumed that Potter had run off to drown in his guilt about not being the perfect saviour, but he sees now how wrong he was.

Draco sees it now. He sees Potter, _really_ sees him, maybe for the first time ever, and he wants to help. However this works out, Draco realises that he still wants to be a part of Potter’s life, that some part of him has grown fond of Potter—attached even. 

Potter leans back from his work and exhales. He wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand but still ends up with a black smudge along his hairline. He looks up then and catches Draco watching him. He tilts his head in question, and Draco smiles fondly at him. Potter doesn’t smile exactly, but his expression softens, and then his eyes drop and he grabs a new tool to work with. 

Draco remembers the way Potter wouldn’t ask Draco to stay because he was scared to be responsible for hurting another person, but how he didn’t want Draco to leave. It’s sad, really, how lonely and starved for attention Potter must truly be if he hadn’t wanted _Draco Malfoy_ to jog on as soon as possible. Even after everything Draco said to him, Potter still wanted his company. 

And Draco...well, Draco can’t help thinking that he is probably the worst person for the job, but he is here when no one else is. He is here and he doesn’t want Potter to feel alone anymore. No, he doesn’t want _Harry_ to feel alone. 

Draco has been using something as silly as a name to keep a distance between them, which seems ridiculous now after everything Harry shared with him. He allowed Draco into his memories and allowed him to see him at his absolute lowest. Draco wants Harry to know that he is cared for, and the first and easiest step he can take toward that is calling him by his first name.

Draco leaves the office and walks over to Harry. He circles around the bike he’s working on, then stops to stand behind and a little to Harry’s left. “What are you doing?”

Harry doesn’t look up from his work, he’s used to Draco asking him questions about the bikes he seems to love spending all his time on. “Right now, I am pulling out the old clutch pack to replace it.”

Draco hums, watching Harry gently remove several disk-like objects from the motorbike. When his head is turned somewhat toward Draco as he sets another one of them down on his left side, Draco reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair behind his ear. His hand hovers there a moment, fingers resting lightly on the shell of Harry’s ear. 

Harry looks up at him then, surprised and curious. He hums a note of question, and Draco shakes his head as if to say that it’s nothing. Harry blinks and watches him a second longer, then he turns and continues what he was doing. 

Draco lets his fingers sink into Harry’s hair, and Harry accepts the touch this time without question. It’s still a little damp underneath from his shower, and Draco is careful not to pull Harry’s head when his fingers catch as they’re raking through the long tresses. 

Draco shifts so he’s standing directly behind Harry and he starts his fingertips this time at Harry’s right temple, slipping into the streak of grey hair there and pulling it back behind his ear, dragging his fingers through until they slip out the end. It’s long enough that it falls past his shoulders, around collar bone length. 

Harry pauses in his work and tilts his head back so he can look up at Draco. Draco huffs out a laugh when he spots that smudge on Harry’s forehead. He licks his thumb and rubs at it. Harry scrunches up his nose, but he accepts this touch too.

“Can I play with your hair? Will it bother you?” Draco asks belatedly. 

“No, go ahead,” Harry answers, dropping his head and resuming his work. 

“Why did you grow it out?” Draco starts at the top of his hairline this time, running his fingers through the thick, black hair. He’s entranced by it. Draco always thought Harry’s messy mane would be coarse and snarly, but the big curls slip through his fingers like silk, and he can’t stop touching it. 

“Dunno.” Harry shrugs. “Stopped bothering with it, then got used to it being long.”

“It’s nice.” Draco runs the tips of his fingernails lightly along Harry’s scalp, knowing how good it feels. He even sees a shiver rack its way up Harry’s spine to his shoulders.

It goes on like that for several long minutes. Draco keeps sliding his fingers in and out of Harry’s hair, massaging his head lightly in the process. Harry is mostly quiet, but Draco can tell he’s enjoying it from the occasional, low note he makes in his throat and how sometimes his hands will pause as his eyes flutter closed. 

After a while Draco starts grabbing pieces of Harry’s hair with more purpose and slowly weaves it into a loose French plait. Harry is not great at keeping still, and he has to keep turning his head at times to do his work, so it’s not the cleanest braid, but it suits him anyway. 

When he gets to the end, the braid comes just to the bottom of Harry’s neck and Draco pauses, holding it, and thinks he might have to let it go because he doesn’t have a tie for it.

Harry reaches back, holding his left hand over his shoulder to Draco, and Draco spots the elastic around his wrist being offered. Draco tugs it up over Harry’s hand, then neatly twists it around the end of Harry’s braid to keep it together. He takes a small step back to admire his work, then pokes and prods at it, adjusting a few of the plaits and trying to tuck in some of the more unruly strands. 

His work is beautiful, of course, but Draco feels like it’s missing something. He tilts his head back and forth a few times, studying it, and then he knows exactly what it needs. Draco slides his wand out of the holster into his hand reflexively, then is thrown by the feel of it. He looks down and remembers what wand he is actually holding now. 

The thing is, Draco hasn’t tried to use it since Harry gave it to him. He isn’t sure that the wand will work for him, and his throat tightens when he thinks about casting a spell with it. He’s worried what it might feel like, after all these years, to be denied or even to have a spell backfire when he tries once more to use what was his first wand. 

Perhaps the wand, with its unicorn hair core, had suited him when he was a child, but that was before he had been tainted by the war. That was before he’d been forced to cast torture curses on Muggles, before he’d hexed classmates for any minor infractions, before he’d released Death Eaters into Hogwarts and had gotten people killed. 

Draco remembers how his wand had started rejecting him even before Harry took it from him, how it started to resist him and refused to cast certain curses. 

That was back when he was still a boy. Now Draco is grown and has spent years living with Dark witches and wizards, acting as they act, creating dark and dangerous potions and objects, and hurting people because the job calls for it. 

To be the perfect spy Draco had to become one of them, and he knows his soul is far blacker now than it was during the war. 

Harry turns his head and looks at Draco, startling him out of his thoughts. His gaze drops to the wand in Draco’s hand, then looks back up at him questioningly. 

Draco smiles, though it feels forced, and says, “Just trying to figure the best way to finish off your lovely new hairstyle.”

Harry nods and, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced, he turns back to his work. 

Draco takes in a deep, slow breath. He raises the wand hesitantly, and then casts, “ _Orchideous._ ”

Draco gasps quietly when three big, purple flowers bloom in a line diagonally down the top of Harry’s braid. The spell came out perfectly, just as he imagined it. 

The deep purple Jackmanii Clematis look exactly like the ones that cover a trellis in the Manor’s gardens. The colour stands out against the stark black of Harry’s hair beautifully. 

A sigh of relief escapes and Draco can’t stop the grateful smile tugging at his lips. He feels so much lighter from his old wand casting perfectly and from finally being able to use magic for the first time in a month. The immediate, overwhelming desire to hug Harry overtakes him, and he gives into it. 

Harry makes a high, startled noise when Draco drops to his knees and throws his arms around Harry’s neck, squeezing him and pressing tightly to his back. 

At first Harry is stock still while Draco hugs him and buries his face in the crook of his neck, then Draco feels his body relax into the embrace. Harry’s hands come up and grip Draco’s arms, warm and comforting. 

Draco kisses the top of Harry’s cheekbone then, and it’s not sexual and it’s not flippant flirting, it’s purely affection and gratitude. 

He presses his forehead to Harry’s temple and whispers, “Thank you, Harry.” 

He can feel the way the muscles shift in Harry’s face to make way for a small smile. Draco squeezes his eyes tightly shut and grins.

◊ ◊ ◊

The next morning is a Sunday, and now, equipped with a wand, Draco has a new lease on cooking.

“Move over, I’m going to give your shelters a taste of Wiltshire,” Draco informs him when he comes downstairs and finds Harry already slaving away over a stew and several pans cooking savoury pie fillings. 

Harry does not, in fact, move over, and he makes Draco wait because he’s ‘in the middle of things’ and ‘already has everything planned out’. That’s fine though, and it ends up working in Draco’s favour anyway since the dough for his lardy cakes needs a couple hours to prove throughout the process. 

In between, Draco assists Harry with the rest of his cooking by chopping and stirring and mixing. Every time he casts a spell with his old wand to do something as simple as set a spoon mixing in a bowl, it eases a little bit of the tension Draco has that the wand will suddenly realise who is wielding it and reject him. 

If Harry notices Draco’s rollercoaster emotions about his wand, he doesn’t say anything about it. 

There is something soothing about working in the kitchen with Harry. Draco likes how it feels—the way they navigate around each other. He likes when they bump shoulders, when Harry puts a hand on the small of Draco’s back to move around him, and when Draco asks Harry for ‘the thingy’ and Harry knows exactly what he wants and hands it to him. 

Draco especially likes when Harry gets in his way while trying to knead his dough, so Draco slaps his arse and leaves a white handprint there, which starts a flour fight that neither of them wins but ends with Harry full-on grinning. 

It feels then as if all the air has been sucked from the room. Draco is floating and high on Harry’s happiness, and he wonders if Harry even notices that with a single expression he so easily and exquisitely destroys Draco. He wonders if Harry can hear the thunderous heartbeat pounding in his chest, heralding Draco’s downfall. 

It takes everything Draco has to turn away from Harry, to pick up his wand and start siphoning away the powdery white mess they made all over the kitchen. He can feel how hot his cheeks are, and he cleans and focuses on nothing else until he can be sure that the tell-tale splotchy flush is gone. 

When he turns back toward the stove, Harry has cleaned all the flour everywhere Draco didn’t get, all but the white handprint on his dark blue jeans. Draco laughs when he sees it, and Harry looks over at him. The grin is gone, but his lips are still turned in a small smile and his eyes are warm and fond. Draco goes back to kneading his dough, smiling down at it all the while. 

May comes by a few hours later to pick up all the food, get Harry’s new shopping list for the week, and bring in his groceries with the Muggle boy, who Draco learns is called Dave but who still doesn’t say much. 

Draco wants to ask her about everything Harry showed him, but Harry has already asked him not to. May doesn’t remember anything, and anyway he’s not quite sure what he would even ask.

Harry asks Draco to start wearing Muggle clothes again, his robes draw too much attention and talk from the Muggles, and he arranges for May to get him some Muggle clothes. Draco makes sure she knows to get him things that are of a finer taste than what is in Harry’s wardrobe. 

To Draco’s surprise, May delivers them the next day and they aren’t bad. Draco doesn’t like them as much as his robes, but at least the trousers are of a better fabric than jeans, sleeker and more professional looking, along with the collared button-ups. Harry might be fine wearing cotton Henleys and V-necks all the time, but Draco is accustomed to a certain standard.

◊ ◊ ◊

Being in Harry’s company makes the days slip by. They tease, and they argue, though it doesn’t ever get too heated, and Draco casually flirts. Nothing comes of the flirting, but that’s okay. Draco isn’t that serious about it anyway, and much as he would enjoy bedding Harry, he genuinely likes the platonic intimacy they have slowly built between them. They are friends, and it’s strange when he thinks too long about it, but it also makes a certain kind of sense—two grumpy old men who gave up on happiness but find it in each other.

As a tactile person, touching Harry becomes easy and natural the closer they get, and Draco notices early on the way that Harry leans into his touch. He realises that after all these long years virtually alone, Harry isn’t only starved for social attention, he is also completely touch starved. Draco makes a conscious effort to touch Harry every day, even if it’s just as small as a hand brushing across Harry’s shoulder in passing. 

As the days go by, and after getting his new Muggle wardrobe, Draco notices a strange trend of some of his clothes going missing. It starts with a pair of socks, then an undershirt, then two shirts, and then a pair of trousers. 

When Draco questions Harry about it, Harry shrugs and says, “Maybe the dryer ate them.”

“The _what_ now?” Draco exclaims. 

Harry doesn’t even bother to look up from the pan he’s cooking their eggs in. “Maybe the dryer ate them,” he says again calmly, almost boredly, like he’s completely unconcerned with his Muggle machine _eating_ Draco’s clothing. 

Draco narrows his eyes, then looks suspiciously over to the machine in question, tucked away in the small room just off the kitchen. The thing had never given Draco the impression that it was sentient and capable of feeding on clothing, but he knows next to nothing about these Muggle machines. 

Later, Draco looks inside the dryer carefully. It doesn’t appear to have any teeth, but he becomes much more reluctant to reach in and retrieve his clothes after that day. 

Draco wants to clean his clothes with washing charms like he is used to, but Harry won’t let him.

“Where are you going to put clothes that are magically washing themselves?” he asks when Draco brings it up. 

“The yard, naturally,” Draco suggests impatiently. 

“So every Muggle in the neighbourhood can see?”

“How many Muggles do you have wandering into your backyard?” Draco challenges.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry argues. “All it’ll take is one and we’ll have the Ministry knocking on the door, asking us why we’re doing magic in plain sight of Muggles. Is that what you want?”

Draco rolls his eyes, but he supposes Harry is right. “I don’t like how the dryer makes my clothes all staticky,” he complains just to complain. 

“That’s what the dryer sheets are for,” Harry reminds him with a sigh.

“I don’t like how they smell. Much too strong.” Harry rolls his eyes at that. 

As the days roll by, May turns into June and Draco thinks about Ron’s trial getting closer. He thinks about what will happen afterward. Surely Ron will be acquitted and then he can testify to Draco’s innocence. 

After that, Draco is not sure. He can’t go back to his investigation now that his cover is blown. The thought of leaving this place to go live in the dark, empty Manor puts a hole in Draco’s gut. He’s become accustomed to Harry’s house; the narrowness of it feels cosy now, the yellow walls feel warm and inviting, and the kitchen smells like comfort and home and family. 

He’s become accustomed to living with Harry. Sometimes it’s difficult always being in each other’s pockets, but Draco thinks how much worse it will be to go from this back to being alone. He doesn’t like the thought of leaving Harry on his own. He’s not sure how Harry feels about it. He doesn’t know if Harry is counting the days, waiting to have Draco gone. 

Draco doesn’t think that he is, but he’s too scared to ask.


	8. Chapter 8

_The Manor is silent. There’s a certain stillness to it that should seem abnormal, but Draco thinks nothing of. He can feel the heels of his boots clicking on the hardwood, but no diegetic sound accompanies it._

_The hallway is spread open, wider and taller than it should be. The walls are painted a warm, light yellow in place of the wallpaper and wainscotting. The space is brighter than Draco has ever seen it, but it is unquestionably Malfoy Manor that he is leaving._

_The paintings he passes in the hall are blurry, washed-out things that are keeping their thoughts to themselves. Sometimes they speak, sometimes they scream, sometimes they stare and no matter where he runs, Draco can’t escape their terrible gaze. Today they have no bearing on Draco’s intent._

_Draco is late for an appointment with Harry, but he knows if he can find the right route he can get there on time. He makes it to the French doors leading out the back of the Manor, into the gardens._

_The room goes dark when Draco steps into it, large and concrete. The bus station is cold and empty, except for a lone kiosk sat in the middle. There are no doors or windows and the space is only lit by the faint blue light of the kiosk._

_Draco walks to Hermione, who is manning the desk. She’s writing furiously on a roll of parchment. The ink splatters as she scratches out a line, trying to get the bus schedule worked out._

_“I need a bus pass, but I’m late,” Draco tells her. “Can you get me to Harry? He’ll think I’m not coming.”_

_Hermione looks up at him, dark eyes furrowed in confusion. “You shouldn’t get him involved.”_

_The sound of their voices is strangely distorted, but neither of them is bothered by it. He knows what he is saying, and he knows what she is saying. He understands the conversation without needing to hear the words spoken distinctly._

_“It’s just tea,” Draco argues. “Everyone deserves tea.”_

_“It’s not working,” Hermione says with a frustrated shake of her head, her whole mane of curly hair swinging with it. She keeps scratching out lines on her parchment._

_“He’ll think I’m not coming,” Draco insists, needing her to understand the urgency of the situation. Draco looks up from the kiosk, seeing if there’s a bus ready to board, but the space is dark and empty._

_A high whistling sound comes from the kiosk and Draco looks back to it. Ron’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other fiddling with the buttons on the middle panel._

_“I thought you knew how to drive this?” Draco says, standing beside him and trying a few of the buttons himself._

_“Don’t get too attached,” Ron says and shakes his head. He’s in his Hogwarts robes, and his face is young, like how it looked in sixth year._

_None of the buttons they push do anything about the high, annoying sound filling the circular space of the kiosk._

_“Shouldn’t you be doing something about this?” Ron asks angrily, looking at Draco with an old fury._

_“Is it mine?” Draco asks in surprise, but then it makes sense. “I forgot I set an alarm.”_

_Draco turns and pushes the button on top of his alarm clock, but it keeps whistling. He looks across his desk and finds it filled with clocks all going off. He turns around in his bedroom and the walls are covered in cuckoo clocks._

_Draco starts running around in a panic, trying to shut off all the alarms, but no matter how many he turns off the whistling keeps going and going, never getting quieter._

_“I know it’s time for our meeting!” Draco tries to shout over the sound. “But I’m still in Wiltshire and there’s no way I can get to Scotland in time if the train isn’t running!”_

_He turns toward one of the many cuckoo clocks on the wall but, instead of the bird moving in and out of its house, it’s sitting out on its perch spinning around and around so fast it’s a blur._

Draco wakes with a jolt. His heart is pounding and his body feels cold and clammy. The whistling is still happening, high and piercingly unmistakable as Harry’s Sneakoscopes. 

Draco jumps out of bed and grabs his wand, and he’s barefoot but wearing his black pyjamas. He pokes his head out of the room, looking first down the hall at the stairs, then toward Harry’s door which is closed. There is no one in sight and Draco turns and rushes to his window, carefully shifting the curtain to the side and looking out at the street. 

In the relative darkness Draco counts the shapes of four people standing in the street at the edge of Harry’s wards. He takes in an unsteady breath, then leaves his room.

“Harry?” Draco calls out over the alarms. When there’s no response he goes to Harry’s room and opens the door. 

A cold fear shoots through his chest when he sees Harry still in bed, unmoving under the covers. In that second Draco wonders—but then, no, he can see Harry’s chest expanding as he breathes. A glance at the Foe Glass shows multiple bodies standing much closer and more distinct than before.

“Harry!” Draco shouts over the Sneakoscope spinning and screaming on the bedside table. 

There is no response, and Draco rushes to the bed. He grabs Harry’s shoulder and shakes it.

“Harry! This is no time—to be—stuck—in a—fucking—dream!” Draco climbs onto the bed shakes Harry’s shoulders violently. Harry’s like a ragdoll, completely unconscious. 

Draco is panting and for a moment he has to stop, just a small second where he’s overwhelmed with the fear and futility of the moment. He lets it in, allows it to wash through him, and then he pushes past it. 

He smacks Harry in the face. “We’re under attack and I need you! Wake—up!” Draco smacks him a couple more times to no effect. “Goddamnit, Potter! Wake UP!” 

Draco punches Harry, a clean shot to his cheek that lands with a heavy thump and jerks his head to the side.

Harry’s eyes fly open and within the span of a breath he’s twisted them around and got Draco on his back with a hand at his throat.

“Harry,” Draco chokes out, gripping onto Harry’s wrist.

Recognition floods into Harry’s expression and he releases Draco. He waves his hand toward the Sneakoscope and high, irritating sound finally ends as it stops twirling and falls over, rolling around a few times on the nightstand before coming to a complete stop. Harry picks his glasses up off the nightstand and put them on.

“Sorry,” Harry says, and his expression twists in guilt. He’s in nothing but a pair of dark green boxer briefs, but Draco barely notices his state of undress.

“Fuck apologies, we’re about to be attacked,” Draco snaps as he moves off the bed. “I counted four in the street, but I’m sure there’s more.” 

Draco moves to the window and glances out of it, the different facing of it allows him to see two more people, this time with their wands raised, casting spells surely meant to break Harry’s wards. “Six,” he amends.

“Nine,” Harry corrects him. Draco glances at him and Harry jerks his chin toward the Foe Glass, in which Draco counts nine figures glaring out at them. 

Harry has pulled on a pair of jeans but hasn’t zipped or buttoned them closed yet. In his hands he has his mobile phone and his thumbs are flying across it, typing out texts as Draco’s seen him do before, but now with much more urgency. 

“Grab what you need and meet me downstairs,” Harry says without looking up from his mobile. 

Draco goes back to his room and shoves his feet into his shoes, not bothering with socks. He hurriedly grabs his robes and yanks his arms through them but doesn’t bother to button it up. He checks his pocket to make sure his emergency kit is with him.

When Draco leaves his room and turns to head downstairs, a loud crack and then shattering sounds have him stopping and rushing back to Harry’s room. His wand is raised and his heart is thumping in his chest, but Harry is alone in his room. The secret compartment that held his pensieve is open, and the pensive is cracked, half the basin broken off and lying at the floor at Harry’s feet. 

Harry looks calm and collected as he casts again and again, breaking each vial of memories stored in the compartment and watching as the silver fluid containing his life spatters and then morphs into wisps of smoke that dissipate and leave nothing behind.

Harry is fully dressed now in a black leather jacket over a grey Henley, and trainers on his feet. As soon as he’s finished he moves to leave the room, though he has nothing but his wand in his hand. 

The low, hollow sound of spells thudding against the wards give an irregular beat to their movements as they jog down the stairs and move through the living room. They don’t bother turning on any lights as they move, and the curtains are drawn across the windows so they can’t see out. 

Draco’s heart is still racing in his chest, his nerves are alight with fear and anticipation, but he forces himself to take a breath. He’s never been so outnumbered, but he confident in his duelling skills and he has Harry Potter on his side. 

Harry pauses in his stride to glance at Draco, and he must be able to see some of the apprehension Draco is feeling there because he stops long enough to begin saying, “Don’t worry, the wards should hold. Unless they know exactly which ones we’ve put up, they—”

Harry breaks off and looks sharply to the side at one of the windows. Draco can feel it too, the subtle but distinct feeling of a layer of Harry’s wards breaking and dissipating. That familiar, heavy, metallic feeling of Harry’s magic starts to fill the room.

Harry looks back at Draco, wide eyed, and says, “Oh shit.” 

The wards are breaking, coming down one by one, and he hardly has time to process it before Harry is pointing his wand right at Draco and desperately casting, “Protego Maxima!” 

The shield barely forms around Draco before the last of the wards fall and Harry’s wild magic explodes with a bright flash of yellow light. The shield holds and protects Draco from the blast, but the rest of the house is not so lucky. The windows are blown out, the furniture is broken and pushed to the edges of the room, and there’s a hole in the ceiling right above Harry.

“Harry?” Draco tries to call to him, but he’s blinking spots out of his eyes and his ears are ringing so loudly he can’t hear his own voice in his head. Water is spraying down on them from a broken pipe in the torn floor above.

Harry is bent over, kneeling on the floor. Sparks of white, yellow, and red magic are flaring around him, breaking objects around the room. Draco hadn’t even considered how the wards falling might affect Harry’s control. 

Movement in the corner of his eye catches Draco’s attention, and he whips his head in that direction to see one of Damian’s men coming in through the kitchen. He gets his wand up just in time to deflect a curse cast at Harry and sends a stunner in response. The wizard shields it and fires back. 

Draco can see a witch and another wizard behind the one he’s duelling, bottlenecked by the doorway the wizard is standing in, and Draco keeps firing hexes at him fast enough to push him back and keep him on the defence, blocking the others from entering the fight. He can feel the slight advantage he has over the other wizard, but he’ll lose that advantage as soon as he gets outnumbered. 

“Harry!” Draco yells over the bursts of magic around them. 

Draco blocks another spell, then he sees an opening when the television cracks loudly from Harry’s rampant magic, drawing the wizard’s attention away for a split second. Draco uses that second to knock the wizard out, sending him flying into the witch behind him. The second wizard jumps out of the way, then turns his focus on Draco. 

The sound of the front door blasting open behind him has Draco’s head whipping around to see two more wizards rushing into the house. He gets a shield up around himself and Harry right in time to block hexes from them, then glances back to the wizard in the kitchen. 

Draco has a Stupefy rolling off his tongue right as he sees another stunner already headed for the wizard, huge and red and wild. It blasts through the doorway and slams into the wizard, sending him crashing into the cabinets. Wood splinters fly through the air as the spell wrecks half the kitchen, breaking dishes and sending pots and utensils flying. 

Harry’s hand is shaking, holding his wand up, and he and Harry make eye contact for a brief moment before they both turn to address the other wizards coming in through the front door, who are breaking Draco’s shield down with multiple hexes. 

The shield falls, and Draco adeptly deflects the oncoming hexes and curses from the now three wizards and a witch slowly pressing forward into the room while Harry throws another wild stunner that takes out two of them and shatters the wall they land into. Instead of casting more hexes, the witch tries to put up a shield, but Harry’s next spell goes right through it, effectively taking them out. 

“Merlin,” Draco mutters then moves over to Harry, grabbing under his arm and hefting him onto his feet. 

“Draco,” Harry gasps out as soon as he’s on his feet, eyes wide. “You need to get away from me.”

He pushes Draco back, and Draco stumbles a step and almost loses his footing over a piece of debris and the wet floor, the broken pipe overhead still raining down on them. The air crackles and rests heavily around Harry.

A crack travels out along the wall from where the kitchen doorway used to be, now a wrecked hole with exposed insulation and torn wiring. The ceiling groans as the weight of the building shifts, too many supports broken from the fight and from Harry.

The sound of things falling and shifting above him has Draco looking up right as a large wardrobe comes sliding out of the hole in the ceiling over Harry. Harry looks up right at the same time, and his wild magic shatters it, but a large chunk of the hardwood strikes him in the head and knocks him over. 

“Harry!” Draco dives forward, falling to his knees over Harry and cupping his face. He’s conscious but dazed, his eyes unfocused. “Fuck! We need to get out—!”

The crackle of a curse whizzing by his head so close his hair tousles has Draco jerking up and looking to the shattered front entryway, where the last two wizards have entered. He barely gets a shield up before the next hex lands. 

Draco has just started the motion for a counter-jinx when he feels strong hands grip at his sides and pull him down. He’s met with Harry’s dark eyes, furrowed with an intense and concentrated look as he pulls Draco against him, chest-to-chest, and Disapparates. 

The sensation of Harry Disapparating them is both familiar and different at once. The tight, twisting pressure is there, but it feels wilder, less controlled. Draco feels like he’s being simultaneously compressed and pulled in a million different directions. His chest and lungs feel so tightly constricted he can’t breathe, but he also feels like his limbs are being stretched and pulled away from him. 

Draco feels like if he doesn’t hold Harry as tight as possible he’ll slip away from him and get thrown into oblivion, but he also feels like he’s gripping so hard his fingers have fused themselves onto the skin on the back of Harry’s neck and Draco wouldn’t be able to let go if he tried. 

Draco clings onto Harry like he’s riding a bucking bronco because that’s the only thing he can relate it to. All he can do is hold on and hope for the best. The mere seconds it takes to Apparate feels like an age, but then in a blink it’s over. 

Harry and Draco come crashing to the ground, landing hard and rolling over each other a couple times before coming apart and sprawling out to a stop on the ground. Draco groans in pain, battered from the hard landing and turbulent Apparition. He knows his muscles and joints are going to ache from this for days, and he thinks about how this kind of work is better left to younger wizards.

Draco takes in a ragged breath, pushes himself to sitting, and then runs his hands all over his body to take stock of everything. He doesn’t feel any pain from splinching, but after that wild ride he feels the need to touch all of his limbs and make sure they are all accounted for. 

In the corner of his eye he sees Harry moving, and he can hear him groaning and cursing under his breath. Draco turns and sees him roll over onto his hands and knees, push himself up and sit back on his heels. 

There are still sparks flying off Harry, and his excess magic is thick and tastes like lightning on Draco’s tongue. He knows he should be worried about it, but he’s more concerned that Harry might have splinched himself. 

“Harry? Are you okay?” Draco asks, pushing himself to standing so he can take those few steps closer to him. 

Harry looks up at him wildly, falling back and scooting away from Draco. “You need to get away from me!” When Harry’s back hits a tree, he uses it to lever himself up onto his feet. 

Draco furrows his brow and runs his eyes over Harry’s form. He can’t see any obvious injuries to him, other than the blood on his forehead where the wardrobe fell on him. It doesn’t look like he’s splinched himself, so that’s good at least, and he doesn’t look like he’s in pain, he just looks scared—scared for Draco. 

A loud crack shatters the quiet night and echoes through the trees around them. Draco jumps and darts his gaze around them, then he looks back at Harry and sees Harry staring at a crack in the tree he had just been leaning against. 

The crack is long and wide, traveling up the length of the trunk and splitting off to one side above their heads. The tree sways ominously, the leaves rustling and whispering from the movement. 

“Harry—”

“Draco, please!” Harry says urgently, shooting a hand up in warning. Sparks fly from his fingers and burst hotly much too near Draco’s face for comfort. He flinches away and frowns, eyes darting back at Harry warily. 

Draco’s heart is thundering in his chest and telling him to run, to get as far away from the threat as he can. He’s seen Potter’s magic in action now, outside of his dampening wards, and he knows what it’s capable of. He’s seen the raw, unbridled power behind his spells, and it scares him.

But no, not Potter. Harry. This is _Harry,_ Draco reminds himself. Harry, who gives his million houseplants baths and wipes off their leaves so they can ‘breathe easier’. Harry, who spends his Sundays cooking for victims of domestic abuse. Harry, who shouldn’t have to do this alone again. 

“Harry,” Draco says calmly, holding up a placating hand and taking a step toward him.

“Don’t! Draco,” Harry pleads. “I can’t—I don’t—I don’t want to hurt you. Please.”

Harry tries to step back away from Draco, but Draco strides forward and catches him, grabbing Harry’s leather jacket by one of the open sides and pulling him forward. 

“Harry, I’m not leaving you,” Draco tells him firmly. 

Harry tries to pull back, but Draco keeps a tight grip on him. He looks like he wants to push Draco away, but he stops short of actually touching him and his eyes drop.

“Harry. Look at me,” Draco commands. His heart is beating wildly because he never would have thought that by escaping with Harry he would be taking some of the danger with him. All he knows is that he needs this to stop now, before Harry explodes again. 

White sparks crackle in the air next to them, flaring up rapidly and disappearing just as quick. 

“ _Look at me,_ ” Draco repeats and grabs Harry’s face in both hands, pressing hard against Harry’s scraggly jaw. 

That gets Harry to meet Draco’s gaze, and his hands come up to grip at Draco’s robes. His expression is filled with fear, eyes wide and brows pulled together. “Draco—”

“You’ve got this,” Draco cuts him off in a firm tone. “You have control of the magic inside you.”

Another set of sparks crack to life by their feet, flashing with a burst of light and heat, like his magic is too much for his body to contain and is seeping and flaring through the cracks in little bursts. “I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do.” Draco holds Harry’s gaze steadily. “You can do this, because I say you can.”

At that Harry releases a burst of nervous laughter, like he can’t contain it any more than he can contain the magic inside him. It’s accompanied by sparks of red, yellow and green, flashing rapidly around their heads.

Harry starts to close his eyes again and Draco shakes his face. “Look at me,” Draco demands, and his eyes snap back open. “Breathe, Harry. Breathe with me.”

Draco grabs one of Harry’s hands and presses it to his own chest. Draco inhales a deep breath, pushing Harry’s fingers into his ribs and making him feel how they expand. 

Harry wets his lips and pulls in wobbly breath. Draco can feel his whole body trembling with the effort of keeping it together. Another burst of white sparks flash between them, singeing the arm of Draco’s robes. 

“Keep breathing, Harry. Keep breathing,” Draco says quickly when he feels Harry tense in response. 

Harry’s next breath is shallower, but he’s still trying and still keeping eye contact. 

“Very good. Keep going, just like that. You’re doing so well, Harry,” Draco praises him and keeps taking deep breaths along with him.

Harry manages three more before more sparks erupt around them.

“You are not a cage for the magic inside you. You are not trying to dam it up, okay?” Draco says gently, trying blindly and instinctually to guide him through regaining control. “You are a vessel. Hold it gently within you. Allow it to exist.”

When Draco pauses Harry gives a short nod to show he’s listening and keeps breathing.

“Feel it in every part of you. Feel it from your toes to your fingers. Feel it in your blood and your bones.” Draco presses his hand to Harry’s chest, right under his heart. “Feel its power seated in your core, don’t try to interrupt it. Don’t try to push it out. Accept its presence there. Let it settle. Let it become a part of you.”

Harry’s eyes dart between Draco’s anxiously, but he seems to be taking Draco’s words to heart and he keeps breathing, slowly taking in steadier, longer breaths. When he closes his eyes this time Draco allow it, knowing that Harry is focusing and trying to do as Draco’s instructed.

Minutes tick by as they practice breathing deeply together and Draco keeps murmuring praises and reassurances. Slowly the sparks dwindle and then stop altogether. 

“There you are, there you are, love,” Draco croons, rubbing his hand up and down Harry’s jaw, then leaving it higher up, most of his fingers behind Harry’s ear while his thumb rubs back and forth over Harry’s cheekbone. “See? I knew you could do it.”

Harry’s expression has relaxed some, and he tries for a small smile. His eyes close briefly and he turns his head slightly into Draco’s touch. Draco huffs out a small laugh, exhaling all his relief and exhaustion with it. 

Harry wraps both arms around Draco’s back and pulls him in, ducking his face into Draco’s neck. Draco goes with him readily, moving his hand to slide into Harry’s hair while the other curls around his neck. 

“You’re okay. I’ve got you,” Draco whispers, leaning his head against Harry’s and running his fingers through his hair soothingly. “I’m not going to leave you.”

He can feel Harry’s sigh breathed out against his neck, warm and relieved. Harry’s tense and trembling body soon relaxes, and Draco heart beat slows, returning to a resting pace. 

When Draco feels Harry let go and start to shift back, Draco releases him. Harry pulls back far enough that they can look at each other again.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says quietly, eyes darting away.

Draco smiles and quirks an eyebrow up. He gets Harry to look back at him when he smacks Harry’s shoulder lightly. “Try again.”

Harry watches him for a minute, then swallows. “Thank you,” he says, needing to clear his throat as if the words got caught in it.

“That’ll do,” Draco says, going for snark but it comes out sounding fond. Harry snorts and shakes his head, but Draco can see the way he’s still taking deep, measured breaths. 

Draco looks around for the first time. He’s been vaguely aware of them being in a forest but has been too wrapped up in stopping Harry from blowing up to get a good look. 

“Where are we?” Draco asks. They are surrounded on all sides by trees, seemingly deep in a forest in the middle of nowhere. Draco can hear the babbling of a spring nearby, and the crickets are out singing to the stars. 

They’re lucky it’s a clear night and not raining, though it still carries the chill of spring and Draco pulls the sides of his robe together and starts buttoning it closed. 

“Glenmore Forest,” Harry says, glancing around and then adding, “Scotland.”

Draco’s hands freeze. “Scotland?” he echoes incredulously. “You Apparated us all the way to bleeding Scotland?”

Harry shrugs shyly and turns away. Draco shakes his head and follows after him, deciding to just be grateful they weren’t splinched in the process. 

Harry only walks a few metres before stopping under a tree. He flicks his wand, revealing a motorbike hidden under a disillusionment charm. Draco squints at it.

“Is that your bike?” he asks, recognising it as the flying bike that was once Sirius’. Harry nods. “When—how did you get it out here?”

Harry shrugs again. “After Hermione’s last visit. Turned it into a portkey.”

Draco’s mouth tips open a little and he stares at Harry. He blinks, then furrows his brow and says, “That...that’s actually rather brilliant.”

“I know,” Harry says with a snort, “it’s almost like I’m a trained wizard or something.”

Draco smacks Harry’s shoulder, but he can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. 

Harry’s crow’s feet crinkle in a brief hint of a smile before his expression turns tight again. 

“We should set up camp, get wards up before anyone can track us,” he says, pauses, then adds, “and before I lose control again.”

Draco purses his lips but he nods. He would like to think that Harry could keep control now that he’s done it once, but he knows better than to expect too much. Though Harry isn’t sparking anymore, his magic still hangs densely around him, like he can’t quite contain all of it. 

Draco watches as Harry digs through the saddlebags on his bike and pulls out a tent. He looks around briefly before deciding on a spot to set it up and kicks some sticks and rocks away from it. 

Once that’s done, Harry takes out his wand and casts several wards around the area. Draco listens curiously and asks Harry about which dampening wards he uses to control his magic, which Harry tells him.

Harry looks markedly more relaxed after the wards go up. The tense set of his shoulders eases, and he closes his eyes briefly and exhales. Even still, when Draco focuses he can feel Harry’s magic hanging around him like a cloud. It’s greatly dampened and only barely prickles at Draco’s senses, raising the hair on his arms. 

With the wards up and now feeling somewhat safer, Draco sighs and looks Harry over more closely. He reaches out and stops Harry with a hand on his arm when Harry moves to set up the tent. 

“You aren’t injured, are you?” Draco pushes on Harry’s arm so he’ll turn to face him, then looks him over with a more critical eye. 

Harry blinks and looks down at himself, as if the thought of being hurt hadn’t even occurred to him. It makes Draco want to smack him.

“No,” Harry says after a delay.

Other than cut on his head, he appears unharmed. Draco brings his wand up to it, casts an Episkey to close the wound and a Tergeo to clean the blood off his face. Harry accepts Draco’s care without complaint. 

“You might have a concussion,” Draco says. “I want you to take it easy for a bit.”

Harry seems amused by this, but he nods. “Alright.”

He turns away from Draco to setup the tent. He slips it out of its slim bag and the tent that he unravels is green and grey coloured, made of a sleek Muggle-made material that Draco is unfamiliar with. It comes with sectioned metal poles that Harry snaps together and then slides through little sleeves in the tent. 

Draco furrows his brow as he watches this, and he bites his tongue to stop himself when he almost asks why Harry doesn’t set it up with magic. He probably wants to avoid using magic after what they just went through, and Draco can feel the way Harry’s magic is more present now than it was at the house.

“The wards you’ve put up, they’re not as strong as the ones at your house?” Draco guesses.

“No,” Harry says with a shake of his head. “I had Hermione and Ron with me before. We put those up together.”

Draco nods, quiet a moment, and then asks, “You’ll be okay?”

Harry seems to consider his question before answering, “Yeah. It’s not as strong, but it should still dampen most of the excess magic and any powerful bursts.”

“Alright.” Draco watches Harry, then squeezes his biceps in a reassuring gesture. Harry looks back to him then gives Draco a small smile. 

“Do you want to try and get some more sleep? I can take watch,” Harry offers, neatly changing the subject.

“You don’t want to sleep?” Draco asks, brow furrowing.

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t think I’d be able to, even if I wanted.”

Draco hums and nods in understanding. “Okay, yeah.” It’s still the middle of the night and pitch dark out. He’s not sure how well he will be able to sleep after everything that just happened, but Draco is sore and tired and the idea of lying down in a bed is too appealing to turn down.

Harry moves back to his bike and rifles around in one of the saddlebags, then pulls out a sleeping bag and a rolled pad. He hands them to Draco, and Draco blinks but accepts them. 

He’s not sure what he expects when he unzips the tent and pokes his head in, but it certainly isn’t for the tent to actually be as small as it looks. 

“What is _this?_ ” Draco exclaims and swings around to give Harry an incredulous look.

Harry raises a confused eyebrow at him. “It’s a tent,” he says slowly as if Draco is being dim.

“No it bloody well isn’t,” Draco argues. “Where’s all the—how do you even—it’s got no room!” 

“It’s a Muggle tent. Muggles don’t have Expansion Charms,” Harry explains patiently.

“There’s barely room enough to lay down in here and nothing else!” Draco gestures irritably at the tent. 

“Yeah,” Harry says like it should be obvious.

“No! There’s no bathroom, where do I—”

“Dig a hole.” 

“ _Excuse_ me?” Draco’s sure his eyebrows hit his hairline, receding and all. “You expect me to do what?”

“Dig a cathole,” Harry says, then shrugs. “Or I guess you could vanish it.”

Draco stutters and stares at Harry in disbelief, mouth hanging open. He’s waiting for Harry to tell him he’s joking, but he doesn’t. Draco blinks and looks away, shaking his head.

“Ridiculous,” Draco mutters under his breath. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Still, he gets down and crawls into the tent awkwardly. He unrolls the sleeping pad, then pulls the sleeping bag out of its sack and lays it out over the pad. Before climbing into the sleeping bag, Draco pulls his shoes off, unbuttons his robes and slips them off, folding them and setting them aside. He still has his pyjamas on underneath his robes. 

The whole process is cramped and awkward, and all the while his head keeps hitting the top of the tent and getting static electricity in it from the weird Muggle-made cloth.

Draco tries to get comfortable, but even with the sleeping pad it feels as if he has a rock or a root or something digging right into his hip. He twists and turns but no matter the direction he somehow feels as if he’s lying on a slight incline with his head on the wrong side of it. 

After a while, Draco stops trying to sleep. He turns onto his back and stares up at the top of the tent, running through the night’s events over and over in his head.

◊ ◊ ◊

Birdsong and sunlight wake Draco the next morning. Draco blinks and rubs at his eyes, lifting his head from his arm curled beneath it and blinking around at the inside of the tent, bright light coming in through the thin material.

The night’s events come back to him in a rush and wipe away his lingering drowsiness. Draco is surprised that he fell asleep. He sits up and fumbles with the zip on the sleeping bag before extricating himself. 

Draco finds his shoes and slips them on, then grabs his robes and unzips the tent. He groans as he crawls out of the damned thing and then stands, brushing off his knees and stretching out his abused muscles. He rubs his hip, sore from practically sleeping on the ground, and looks around their campsite. Harry is sat a short distance from the tent under a tree with his back against the trunk. 

The sun is up and coming through breaks in the canopy above, splashing Harry with bright spots along his shoulder and hair, but mostly they’re cast in shadow and the morning air is chill. Draco shivers and pulls his robes on over his pyjamas, buttoning them up as he moves toward Harry.

“Good morning,” Draco says, his voice hoarse from sleep. 

Harry glances up at him, then looks back to the forest laid out in front of him and the stream a few metres away. He has bags under his eyes showing his lack of sleep. “ ‘Morning.” 

“How long was I asleep?” Draco asks, fastening the last button on his robe and pulling the collar up closer around his neck. He eyes the dirt and leaves under the tree, and then he relents, his desire to sit by Harry winning out over his desire to keep his robes clean.

“Few hours.” Harry glances over again briefly when Draco’s knee knocks against his. 

Draco studies his profile after Harry turns his gaze away. The reality of their situation settles heavily in Draco’s mind as he observes the subtle hints of tension and concern written in the lines of Harry’s face. 

Draco puts a hand on Harry’s thigh and squeezes gently to get his attention. When those moss eyes are turned on him again, Draco says, “I’m sorry.” 

The crease in Harry’s brow deepens briefly. “For what?”

“For...this.” Draco gestures around them to the forest and the tent and their situation in general. “For your house, and for dragging you into my mess.”

“It’s fine, Draco,” Harry says, waving away his concerns, but his tone or lack thereof makes it sound like he doesn’t think it’s fine.

“No, it’s not. That was your home—your life,” Draco says. “It’s okay for you to be upset about it.”

The lines around Harry’s mouth tighten briefly, but then he relaxes a hair and leans into Draco. Draco sees the opening for what it is—Harry subconsciously expressing his need for the physical affection he’s been deprived of for so long. 

Draco’s hand leaves Harry’s thigh to wrap around his shoulders, pulling them closer. Harry tenses up for a second, then he relaxes into the embrace and drops his head onto Draco’s shoulder. 

Draco rests his head against Harry’s and lets his eyes wander over the trees and the stream, the bright blue sky and the green vegetation around them. He sighs softly, letting the sound of the water babbling, the birds chirping, and the wind through the trees fill his senses. 

Harry is a warm line against Draco’s side, helping keep away the chill in the morning air. Sitting with Harry like this makes Draco realise how starved he himself has been for touch and companionship. Affection from a temporary lover is not the same as sincere, regular affection from someone you care about. 

Draco greedily soaks up every second of it. He breathes slowly and deeply, taking in the smell of wet earth, pine needles, the old leather of Harry’s jacket, and the clean scent of his shampoo. Slowly the knot in his chest begins to unwind.

Before long the stress and anxiety of their situation worm their way back into his thoughts, and Draco has to let the peaceful moment go. 

“What’s the plan?” he asks, his voice quiet. 

Harry shakes his head minutely and shrugs. “I don’t know.” He pulls away and Draco lets his arm slip off him. 

“Breakfast?” Harry asks, and Draco smiles wryly and nods. 

Harry puts a hand on the tree trunk behind him and uses it to push up onto his feet. He offers Draco a hand and helps pull him up. When Harry moves to his bike to rifle around in his saddlebags, Draco follows him. 

Draco peers curiously over Harry’s shoulder and furrows his brow when he sees how deep Harry’s arm goes into the bag and how many things are in it. 

“You put Extension Charms on your bags and not your tent?” he asks incredulously.

Harry glances at him. “The bike came with them.”

“Hmm,” Draco hums in dissatisfaction. He watches Harry as he pulls out a bag with a cooling charm on it, a camping stove, a pan, and a couple of plates. Harry sets up the small Muggle stove and sets the pan on it, then takes out a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread from the bag. 

Draco takes out his wand and conjures two cushy wingback chairs, upholstered in light cream and mint green striped silk. Harry glances over when Draco does, then gives an amused huff when he sees the chairs. Draco raises an eyebrow at him in question as he settles into one of them, crossing one leg over the other, but Harry merely shakes his head and chooses not to comment. 

When Harry is finished, Draco accepts a plate of eggs and toast from him. Right as he’s bringing the eggs on toast up to his mouth, they are interrupted by the white flash of a Patronus sailing into their camp, swirling around them once and then coming to a stop in front of them. Draco recognises the otter as Hermione’s Patronus. 

_“Harry, I hope you’re alright. I’m assuming since neither you nor Draco have been brought into the Ministry that you’ve both escaped. Are you getting my texts? Call me. A lot has happened.”_

There is a pause in the message, like Hermione had to stop and prepare herself to say the next sentence. 

_“Kingsley is dead. The Ministry is in chaos. Damian is claiming that Draco murdered him, and you’re wanted for questioning. They think you’re involved, Ron too. They gave Ron Veritaserum after it happened, that’s how they knew where to find you, I’ve only just found out._

_“I wouldn’t be surprised if they try to arrest me too, and I don’t know how long I’ve got, but there’s enough of us on Ron’s side, and we’re trying to get things under control. Damian is using the chaos to make a move for Minister. Just...call me. Let me know you’re alright.”_

The Patronus’ form melts into silvery, shapeless wisps before dissipating altogether.

Draco blinks, his gaze shifting around as he tries to process everything Hermione just told them. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, dropping his uneaten eggs and toast back onto the plate. 

Draco closes his eyes and rubs a hand over them, then cups his forehead and props his elbow on one leg. He holds this position as a slew of curse words run through his mind.

He stands up abruptly, setting his plate down on the chair and then pacing around the camp. 

Draco hadn’t thought it would get worse. He knew it _could._ Of course it can always get worse, but he had hoped that it wouldn’t. And of all the outcomes, this is the worst one. 

Damian as Minister. That’s likely what he has been working toward this whole time, but now it’s a real possibility that he could become Minister and soon. The idea is frightening, to say the least. 

With Damian’s charisma, his way with words and his ability to twist laws in his favour, Draco has no doubt that he will end up as Minister. Once he is Minister he will have even more power to expand his Anti-Dark Arts squad, the Huntsmen, to give them even more power. He will have the power to pass laws that will allow him to spy on people’s homes, to randomly search them, to jail suspects indefinitely without charging them of a crime...and Draco is sure he will start to make even more people disappear. 

Draco can already envision the military state Wizarding Britain will become if Damian comes to power. He will use the people’s fear of the Dark Arts leftover from Voldemort and the War to keep them scared, to push his agenda, to confiscate the wealth and holdings of Purebloods under the pretence of weeding out Dark Arts practitioners and then use it to build his empire. 

Pacing back and forth, Draco runs his hands through his hair repeatedly and tugs on it in frustration. He hates what is happening but more than that he hates how utterly powerless he is to stop it. Perhaps instead of all those years he spent painting himself as a villain to infiltrate Dark Arts covens, he should have been repairing his image and working up the ladder of the Ministry to infiltrate Damian’s crew.

It’s funny, when Draco thinks about it—when he thinks about all the trouble he has gone through to gain the reputation of being a Dark wizard and thereby gain the trust of real Dark wizards. Draco has had to do so many things he hated, so many things he regrets, as well as creating and spreading plenty of nasty rumours to build a certain image. 

Now Damian has automatically painted Draco as the worst villain out there. He has given him the darkest of reputations, all while Draco was baking lardy cakes and watching Judge Judy. It’s laughable, really, and Draco does laugh out loud. 

The laugh comes out a bit manic, but who can blame him? He’s just been told that the Wizarding World thinks he killed the Minister for Magic. 

Draco realises that while he has been pacing and stewing and laughing over the news, he hasn’t heard Harry say anything about it. He drops the hand that has been rubbing his eyes and turns to Harry. 

Harry is still seated in his conjured chair, calmly eating his breakfast. When Draco stares at him for ten full seconds in disbelief, Harry looks up at him. 

“How are you so calm right now?” Draco asks in bafflement with a side of annoyance. 

Harry shrugs, and he takes his time chewing a bite of food and swallowing before he answers. 

“It doesn’t really change our situation. I was already an outcast, and everyone already thinks you’re a criminal,” he says, and he looks so distinctly unruffled that it irks Draco.

“Of course it changes things!” Draco throws his hands up in frustration. “If Damian becomes Minister, then Ron isn’t going to have a chance in hell. They’ll throw him in Azkaban, sure as I’m standing here, and I’ll never be able to clear my name!”

Harry sighs and sets his plate down. “And what could we possibly do about it? It’s not like either of us was planning on waltzing down Diagon Alley any time soon anyway.”

“I don’t know!” Draco exclaims, his tone rising right along with his fear and frustration. “But I don’t want to live the rest of my life like a fucking Muggle!”

As soon as he says the words, something passes across Harry’s face, something resembling hurt, there and gone again before Draco can pin it down. Harry’s relaxed expression shuts down and before he knows it, Draco is looking at the familiar and unsettlingly blank face he had almost forgotten Harry used to wear all the time.

Draco could scream. Instead, he rubs at his eyes, takes a deep breath, and slowly releases it through his nose. He drops his hand and meets Harry’s empty gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says quickly. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice, but in light of the news I should think that would be excusable.”

He pauses, waiting for Harry to relax again, to murmur acceptance of his apology, but he doesn’t.

“Harry, please don’t do this to me right now. I’m about to lose my fucking mind,” Draco pleads. “I don’t need Ugg, I need Harry.” 

The only sign of acknowledgement he gets is a muscle in Harry’s jaw clenching and unclenching. His expression is still carefully blank as he says, “I’m not a part of that world anymore. It doesn’t matter to me what they think I have or haven’t done.”

Draco has to fight down that old instinct to lash out at Harry in order to crack that mask. “And what of me? I should, what? Stay out here? While away the rest of my years in a tent in the woods, praying none of Damian’s men hunt me down and string me up for treason?”

“Whatever you choose to do is entirely up to you.” Draco hates the way Harry’s voice comes out in a monotone. 

“Harry,” Draco pleads, moving forward and reaching to touch Harry’s arm, but then he thinks better of it and stops short. “We are wizards. Regardless of what happened, you don’t belong out here with these Muggles.”

Harry just looks up at him with that hollow gaze.

“You deserve to come back! You deserve your friends and your family. You deserve to not have your name slandered,” Draco insists fiercely. When he doesn’t get a response, he wants to grab Harry and shake sense into him, but he doesn’t. “You are a wizard, Harry. You belong in the Wizarding World.”

One corner of Harry’s mouth twists into a wry smile, like he thinks what Draco just said is funny in a painful way. Draco would be happy for the crack in his facade, if it weren’t so heartrending. 

“I’ve never belonged anywhere.”

The way Harry says it, so flat but so sure of its veracity, breaks Draco’s heart. He wants so badly for it to not be true, he wants Harry to feel like he has a place in this world, but he knows nothing he can say will change Harry’s feelings on the matter. Nothing he can say will change anything Harry has been through. 

_You belong with me._ Draco bites down on this response. He’s been trying to keep his romantic feelings toward Harry buried ever since he realised he had any. Juvenile declarations of love aren’t what Harry needs right now. 

Harry needs someone he can trust, someone he can depend on, someone who isn’t pushing an agenda. He needs basic human kindness and affection without any expectations attached, and Draco can give that to him. He would be no good for Harry as a romantic partner anyway; he is probably the absolute worst choice. 

A deep ache starts up behind his ribs and Draco tries to force down the feelings creating it. He has never been good with empathy or putting others’ needs before his, but somehow it’s become easy with Harry. He just always has to be the bloody exception to the rule. 

Draco doesn’t like having this conversation while standing over Harry, so he crouches in front of him and rests a hand on his knee. “Well now you’re here with me, and I’m not leaving, alright? I told you that I’m staying with you.” 

“You should,” Harry says. When Draco’s brows furrow in confusion, Harry elaborates. “You should leave. I’m not safe to be around. The house is gone, I don’t have anything to offer you anymore.”

“Bullshit,” Draco argues. “I know you didn’t want to get involved but you are now, and I’m sorry for that, but we’re in this shit storm together. We stick together.”

A faint crease appears in Harry’s forehead, like he wants to frown and argue, but he doesn’t.

Draco moves his gaze around Harry’s face carefully trying to read what he can in it. He can see the stubborn set to Harry’s jaw, so he says, “And don’t you dare even think about doing something stupid and self-sacrificing like taking off on me. Wild magic or no wild magic, I will hunt you down and knock your fucking lights out, understood?”

Harry huffs and shakes his head briefly in amused disbelief. It’s a small gesture, but it’s a huge relief to see Harry’s mask coming down.

When Harry’s gaze finds Draco’s again, he asks, “What do you want to do then?”

Draco chews his lip in thought. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess first step is to call Hermione.”

Harry shakes his head and Draco gives him a questioning look. “My mobile broke during the fight.”

“Oh, damn,” Draco says. “You haven’t got another?”

Harry shakes his head again. 

“Is there another way to call her?”

“I guess if we could find a pay phone or a shop that sells mobile phones,” Harry hedges. 

Draco squints at hearing the hesitation in his tone. “But?”

“But I don’t think I should be around Muggles,” he says. “I could blow up again.”

“Okay,” Draco says with a short nod and squeezes above Harry’s knee. “We’ll work on that then.”

Harry doesn’t look optimistic, but that’s okay, Draco has enough confidence for both of them. 

“It’ll be fine,” Draco assures him.

“Draco, I’ve been dealing with this for years and never had proper control.” 

“No, you’ve been _repressing_ it for years,” Draco sharply corrects him. “Plus you never had me before. I have all the confidence that you’ll be in total control in no time.”


	9. Chapter 9

The first day of training ends in disaster. 

Harry accidentally fells a tree that nearly lands on Draco’s head, and he has to jump out of the way to avoid being flattened. In a desperate bid to stop it, Harry’s wild magic blows the tree up, which turns it into thousands of deadly shards that Draco only just manages to shield himself from at the last second. 

By the end of it, Draco’s heart is thundering and he has seen his life flash before his eyes. Harry is sullen and has lost all confidence in the process. Dinner is a quiet affair and Draco knows that Harry doesn’t sleep at all that night. He doesn’t even join Draco in the tent. 

The second day isn’t as bad, though the bar is set fairly low. After the events of the previous day, Draco is soundly disillusioned of the ease with which he expected this to happen. While they are outside the wards he keeps himself shielded and he is on tenterhooks the whole time. 

He tries to guide Harry through the process of centring and calming himself the way he had initially, but Harry can’t do it and gets frustrated. They call it a day after Harry sets a minor forest fire that Draco scrambles to douse. 

Draco can practically feel the waves of frustration coming off Harry. He even seems to be making an effort to keep a distance between them. Harry won’t sit near Draco anymore, he moves away when Draco tries to stand closer to him, and he even starts flinching away from Draco’s touch. 

Draco doesn’t know what to do. Part of him wants to say something, but they’re both stressed out by the situation and Draco has spent all day trying to stay calm and reassuring for Harry. So he retires to the tent without a word and Harry doesn’t join him.

On the third day Harry flash freezes the surrounding area and kills all of the more delicate plants caught in it. Draco spends the rest of the day under a Warming Charm, wrapped in his sleeping bag next to the fire. 

By the fourth day they are both exhausted and cranky. 

Draco added a Cushioning Charm to his sleeping pad, but he still feels like there’s a rock jabbing him no matter which way he turns. He knows Harry hasn’t been getting much sleep either, based on the dark bags under his eyes. 

They are both tense from staying in one place for so long, knowing that they should move on before anyone takes note of the bursts of magic coming from the area, but Harry doesn’t want to move camp until he thinks he can do so without hurting Draco.

Every day that passes is another day where they haven’t been able to contact Hermione, and Draco hates not knowing what’s going with the Ministry and with Ron. He also knows that Harry is itching to check on May. 

Draco longs for a shower. With each passing day he feels as if more and more grime is accumulating on him, regardless of how many Scourgifies he casts. He feels the same about his clothes, even though he has his spare robes, pants and undershirts, he feels like they just immediately get gross again out here. 

Camping is dirty and about the farthest thing from luxury Draco has ever experienced. He hates the dirt that gets under his nails, in the tent and even in his food. He hates the insects that buzz around him while he’s outside, and he absolutely hates defecating in the woods like an animal with his bottom exposed to the universe. 

This morning Draco woke earlier than Harry and is outside cooking breakfast for them when Harry stirs. Harry had shown him how to work the little camping stove, and they have been trading off with the cooking duties. 

Draco notices the movement out the corner of his eye and shifts his gaze from the beans cooking in the pan over to Harry, his sleeping bag laid out on the other side of their camp, opposite the tent. Draco is not sure why he feels so strongly about sleeping outside and giving Draco the tent when there is room enough for both of them. He knows he initially complained about how small it is, but it’s at least big enough for two grown men to lay down in. 

Draco watches as Harry unzips his sleeping bag and gets out of it. Harry slips his shoes on, stretches, then heads for the bike and digs a clean outfit out of one of the bags. 

Draco looks away while Harry undresses, casts Cleaning Charms on himself, and slips into a clean pair of jeans and a long-sleeved purple Henley. He picks up his leather jacket which is hanging from the bike’s handlebars and slides that on as well. The sun has been up for a few hours, but it’s chill in the shadow of the forest’s thick canopy.

Normally Harry comes over and at least sits with him while breakfast is cooking, even if they don’t talk, but this morning he doesn’t. He putters around his bike and gazes around at the trees and only comes over after Draco calls him to breakfast. 

They eat their eggs and beans on toast in silence, and then afterward Draco gathers the dishes and casts cleaning charms on them. He stretches and mentally prepares himself for another day of tension and frustration with Harry, but then when he moves to leave the wards, Harry doesn’t follow.

“Harry?” Draco asks. 

Harry looks up at him from his armchair, not having moved since he sat down to eat. He watches Draco for a minute, and Draco furrows his brow and tilts his head in question. Harry sighs out his nose and casts his gaze away from Draco for a few seconds. 

“This isn’t working. You need to leave,” he says flatly. 

Draco’s stomach drops when he hears the words. Then his eyes harden and he turns to face Harry fully. “I already told you that’s not going to happen.”

“Look, I know you hate it out here—” Harry begins.

“I don’t hate it out here, and I would appreciate you not telling me how I feel,” Draco cuts him off sharply.

Harry rubs his lips together, then lets out a rough breath. “Draco, we both know this isn’t going anywhere. I know you’re anxious to contact Hermione, you should just go and deal with it without me.”

“Yeah, because the last time I left you that worked out _so_ well for me,” Draco drawls sarcastically.

“I can give you money, and food, and whatever else you need. You can stay in some ritzy hotel while you wait this out, watch telly and order room service,” Harry says and moves as if to get the supplies from his motorbike, but Draco quickly steps in front of him and cuts him off. Draco’s brows draw down deeper when Harry steps back away from him. 

“I don’t want to stay at some damn hotel,” Draco snaps, fighting to keep his tone level. “I’m not leaving you. I don’t know how much clearer I can make this.”

“I don’t have anything else to offer you,” Harry says tonelessly.

Draco glares. “And I don’t need anything from you,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to help you. I know it’s hard to believe because I’m Draco Malfoy, who only ever thinks of what I can take and never what I can give—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Harry interrupts him. “I don’t think that of you.”

Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“I _don’t,_ ” Harry stresses. “Not anymore. And I don’t want you to leave, but I need you to. If you don’t leave now you’ll only end up hurt or worse.”

“What? You want me to leave so you can feel like you’re protecting me?” Draco drawls. 

“I am protecting you. You’re not safe with me.”

At those words something finally snaps in Draco. He’s been so patient. He’s been trying so hard to be supportive and helpful, but he can’t anymore. He’s so bloody sick and tired of Harry throwing himself on his sword for everybody else. 

Draco lets his nose wrinkle and his mouth curl up into a contemptuous sneer. “Tell me, Potter, is that martyrdom hereditary? Do you think your parents would be proud of how you’ve followed in their footsteps? How you’ll all die in the same boring, disgustingly altruistic manner?” 

A brief flash of shock and hurt pass through Harry’s expression before it turns thunderous. His eyes flare with a fury Draco hasn’t seen since Hogwarts. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating, like staring down an oncoming train. 

There’s a long, tense moment where he thinks Harry might actually throw a curse at him, but Draco doesn’t back down. He can feel how upset Harry is by the way his wild magic seeps out of him, thick and heavy, metallic-tasting like lightning—like blood. 

When Harry speaks it’s with a low, carefully even tone. “That’s a low blow. Even for you.”

“I know, that’s why I said it,” Draco snarls. 

Harry’s hands clench and unclench. He takes a ragged breath in through his mouth and out through his nose. Draco’s wand is already in his hand, having activated his forearm holster out of instinct as soon as he had felt Harry’s wild magic.

“Come on, Potter, do your worst,” Draco taunts him. “Show me you give a shit about anything beyond wallowing in your pathetic guilt and self-pity.”

“Stop. I know you’re just trying to rile me up,” Harry says, his voice and his expression tight with the effort of keeping control.

“Oh, is that what I’m doing?” Draco asks with feigned innocence. “Are you certain I don’t truly believe your mother was Muggle-born rubbish and your father got what he deserved for—”

“Goddamnit, stop egging me on!” Harry yells and it’s accompanied by a streak of lightning that crashes over the wards, filling the camp with a deafening boom. It highlights the round shape of the wards as the lightning branches and spiders down them. 

Fear breaks through Harry’s furious expression as he watches the result of his anger. Draco is sure his own eyes are just as wide. His heart is up in his throat, pounding so wildly you would think it’s trying to break its way free of his chest to find somewhere safer to reside.

“Why do you have to make everything so fucking hard?” Harry grits out when he looks back to Draco. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“Well I neither need nor want your idiotic notion of protection,” Draco snaps. 

“I almost killed you not four days ago!” Harry exclaims, throwing his hands up in aggravation. Bursts of red sparks flash around him to accompany the outburst. 

“Was it intentional?” Draco puts a hand on his hip. He raises his eyebrows at Harry impatiently when he sputters and looks perplexed by the question. “Well?”

“Draco,” Harry starts, shaking his head and furrowing his brow in confused frustration. “That doesn’t matter, I still—”

“Yes it does! It does matter because for the first time in years I finally have someone in my life that I can actually fucking trust, and I’m not going to abandon you at the first sign of trouble!” Draco argues fiercely. 

Harry’s mouth tips open and his eyes widen, apparently surprised by this revelation. The sight makes Draco pause, and then continue in a softer tone.

“You think I’m not scared? Of course I’m scared, I’m not a bloody idiot,” Draco says with a somewhat exasperated huff. “Yes, you are powerful, and yes, you could have killed me. I’m not denying that, but I trust you.” 

Harry blinks at him, then his mouth twists and he glances away. When he looks back up at Draco, there is hesitation and uncertainty in his eyes. “Draco…” he begins but doesn’t seem to know how to follow it up.

“If you’re trying to get me to leave because you despise me and you’re sick of seeing my pointy face then fine, that I’d understand,” Draco says, trying for humour but such a thought still makes his stomach twist in anxiety. “But if you’re trying to push me away because you’re worried about me, then I’d to ask you to please stop being such a pillock.”

The lines around Harry’s mouth tighten and he scrubs a hand through his hair, pulling at it briefly in frustration as his gaze drops. “I’m not sick of you,” he mutters. The words loosen the knot in Draco’s chest. “You’re an arsehole, but that’s not why I want you to leave. And I don’t understand how you can trust me after—after the tree incident.”

The ‘tree incident’. That’s what they’re calling it now. 

Draco takes a cautious step toward Harry, just one, and this time Harry doesn’t back away from him. Draco takes it as a good sign. 

“I trust you because the ‘tree incident’ was an accident. Because even when you don’t have control, you and your magic are still trying to protect me.” Harry gives him a confused look. “You didn’t mean to drop a tree on my head, and when you saw it was happening you tried to stop it.”

“Yeah. And blew it up. Which turned it into a thousand deadly projectiles aimed right at you,” Harry says, unconvinced. 

“Semantics,” Draco says with a dismissive wave of his hand. Harry huffs. “Your instinct was to stop it—to protect me.”

Harry pushes up his glasses to rub at his eyes wearily. He sighs, then straightens his glasses. His expression is resigned. He can’t refute what Draco is saying, even if he doesn’t necessarily agree with him about the particulars, and that seems like enough of a win for Draco. 

Slowly and carefully Draco takes the three last steps necessary to close the distance between them. Draco touches a hand to Harry’s arm lightly, fingers barely brushing the cool material of his jacket. 

Harry’s tension is apparent in the line of his shoulders and the tightness of his expression, but he doesn’t flinch away like he has been these past few days. Draco has desperately missed the closeness they had before they went on the run. 

“Now will you please stop pushing me away?” Draco asks softly. “I can’t help you when you do that.”

Harry purses his lips. He looks up at Draco, then glances away and gives a short nod. 

“I know I’m an arsehole. A horrible, no-good arsehole,” Draco says apologetically, giving Harry’s biceps a tentative squeeze. “I’m sorry for my comments about your parents. I didn’t meant them.”

“I need you,” Harry begins slowly, voice tight, “to not do that again.”

“Okay. I won’t. I promise.”

“That was not okay.” Harry’s tone is strained, like it’s a struggle to get the words out. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Draco apologises, nodding his assent. 

Draco has never been good with apologies, and it’s been a long time since he has been around anyone he cared enough about to apologise to, but Harry is worth trying to be better for. 

Harry releases a slow exhale and the tense set of his shoulders relaxes minutely. Draco is pleased to see it and drops his hand. 

“Do you want to…?” Draco glances over to the area outside their wards where Harry has been trying to learn control. 

Harry’s eyes follow the glance and his brow furrows. “No, not—not right now. Not today. We can…” He sighs. “We can try again tomorrow. I just—I need a break.”

“Of course,” Draco agrees readily. After such an intense fight, Draco feels it’s best to leave off for today as well.

Harry curls up in his armchair with a book and stays inside the wards all day. Draco takes a long walk outside the wards, gathering firewood as he gathers his thoughts. When he stops to think about it, it terrifies him that the idea of losing Harry has become more frightening to Draco than Harry’s potentially lethal wild magic.

◊ ◊ ◊

The following morning the tension in the air isn’t nearly as thick, but they are both still tired and on edge.

“Keep breathing,” Draco directs him.

“I am breathing!” Harry snaps, white sparks flashing around him. “If I wasn’t breathing I’d be a bloody corpse!”

Draco sighs, tightening his grip on his wand and preparing to renew his shield if need be. 

“Getting snippy with me isn’t going to help your breathing,” Draco returns, just as snippy. 

Harry growls and tries again to levitate one of the leaves from the ground, but as soon as he points his wand at it, it erupts in flames. 

“Relax, just relax,” Draco says.

“You do know that telling someone to relax always has the opposite effect, right?” Harry snarls, shooting at glare at Draco. 

Draco sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He takes a moment to breathe in and out to calm himself, then he says, “I’m just trying to help.”

Harry groans irritably, paces back and forth, the curses under his breath. When he glances over to Draco again, it’s with a contrite expression. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just—this is frustrating, and I get grouchy when I don’t work out.”

“Oh, _now_ I see why you’re so obsessed with your exercises,” Draco drawls and rolls his eyes at Harry’s definition of grouchy. 

Harry releases a frustrated huff. “I’m serious. When I was in rehab it was part of my recovery, and it helped. A lot.”

Draco stops and regards Harry more seriously. Something in his expression must show his curiosity, because after looking over at him, Harry elaborates.

“It just helps me stay...balanced. It helps me focus so I don’t lose control of my magic as easily. It even helps with my sleeping problems,” he says. “And it puts me in a foul mood when I don’t do it.” 

Draco runs a hand down his face. “Why didn’t you say so before? No wonder you’ve been having so much trouble. How do you expect to keep control when you’ve hobbled yourself so?” 

Harry shrugs and turns his hands up briefly in a sort of frustrated and helpless gesture. “I dunno, with everything else going on it just didn’t seem as important.” 

Draco tuts. “Do you have any of your exercise clothes with you?” he asks, and Harry nods. “Put them on.”

Harry briefly gives Draco a curious look before turning away and doing as told. When he returns, dressed in his gym clothes with his hair tied up in a messy bun, he looks at Draco with a question in his expression.

Draco gestures widely and says simply, “Work out.” 

Harry frowns at first, but then he looks around at the area and after giving it some thought, he starts working out. He does several exercises that don’t need equipment—push ups and lunges and burpees and the like.

After he’s done that for a while—without any bursts of wild magic, Draco notes smugly—he brushes off his hands and then seems to pause to think of what exercise he could do next. 

“Do you like to run?” Draco asks when the thought comes to him.

Harry looks at him again, slow and thoughtful before answering, “I used to.”

Draco jerks his chin out toward the trees. “Well, go on then.”

Harry’s brow furrows in thought, and he watches Draco for another moment before he turns and jogs away on a deer trail through the trees. 

While Draco waits for Harry to return, he cleans things as much as he can around camp. He vanishes a bit of dirt that’s found its way into the tent and casts a Cleaning Charm on his sleeping bag. He goes to Harry’s sleeping bag and does the same, then moves to clean the armchairs as well. 

Harry has left his book sitting out on his chair, and Draco picks it up. He leafs through the pages curiously and stops when he finds Harry’s place marker. His bookmark is a pressed flower—a pressed _clematis._ Draco’s heart lurches as if he’s just jumped off a cliff. 

The deep purple it once was has faded to a reddish mauve now that it’s dried, but Draco knows this is one of his flowers, one of the ones he’d conjured and put in Harry’s hair. Harry had kept it. Harry had carefully pressed and dried one of them so he could keep it. Draco imagines him using it as his bookmark, delicately holding it, transferring it from book to book, looking at it nearly every day. 

Surely it means something, doesn’t it? Some level of affection—romantic or otherwise doesn’t matter to Draco. Of course Draco longs for it to be romantic, but any sign of affection from Harry is a welcome relief. Harry holds his emotions so close to his chest that sometimes Draco wonders if Harry likes him at all, or if he only keeps him around because he’s been bereft of human contact for too long. 

Seeing his flower here, preserved and kept close by Harry, fills Draco with warmth at the same time it sends a shiver down his spine and gives him goosebumps.

Draco lightly runs a finger down one of the delicate petals. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he licks his lips and swallows. After a moment he manages to close the book and put it back where it was. He wonders how Harry would feel if he knew that Draco knows about the flower, and he doesn’t want to be caught accidentally snooping. 

Draco flutters around the camp the rest of the time Harry is gone, trying to be productive but he can’t focus because his mind keeps going back to Harry keeping his clematis. 

When Draco catches sight of Harry coming back, he moves to meet him outside of the wards. Harry is sweaty and panting, his expression is relaxed, and all of the tension seems to have bled from his frame. Draco smirks.

“Feel better?” he asks, only a little smug. 

Harry rolls his eyes at him, but his lips tilt up in the hint of a smile. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Draco says with a nod, “then you’ll do your workout every morning before we work on your control.” 

“Yessir,” Harry says with a mocking salute, and Draco laughs. A wave of relief hits him at seeing Harry’s playful side again. 

Draco conjures a glass and fills it with an Aguamenti which Harry eagerly downs. 

“Come on then, wand out,” Draco says afterward, and Harry raises a suggestive eyebrow at him. 

Draco flushes and lightly smacks Harry’s shoulder when he realises what Harry is thinking. At the familiar, playful gesture Harry smiles with his eyes, his crow’s feet crinkling briefly. 

When Harry pulls out his wand he levitates a leaf with no sparks and no surprises. Well, he actually levitates about a dozen leaves instead of just the one, but that’s okay. By the time he ends the spell he looks so much more happy and relaxed than Draco has seen him in days, and the mood is infectious. 

Draco puts a hand behind Harry’s shoulder and smiles at him. “See? The lesson for the day is always listen to me.”

Harry snorts out a laugh, and Draco feels immeasurably relieved seeing the way Harry relaxes further under his touch. 

They keep training for a while longer. Harry performs basic magic spells and all of them come out more powerful than he intends, but nothing blows up. 

At one point Harry Accios a branch and gets a whole log that comes hurtling toward them. Draco reacts quickly and spells it into a cloud of sawdust that blows over them. It smells lovely, but it makes Draco sneeze and it’s going to be a nightmare to get out of his clothes.

Harry moves, and Draco glances up to see him lifting his wand. Draco steps back involuntarily and his wand hand comes up in preparation to shield—a reflex that’s come about from the last few days. 

Draco realises his mistake as soon as he sees the way Harry’s expression tightens and his shoulders lift with tension. 

Harry’s magic feels heavier around him than it did not a minute before, and a few sparks start crackling around them. His jaw clenches and his brow furrows as he tries to fight down the magic leaking out of him, but the harder he tries to contain it, the worse it gets.

It’s such a small thing, but the change is obvious now that he’s noticed it. Draco could slap himself for how he hadn’t realised before. It’s no wonder Harry has been struggling, he has been fighting his own emotions while being influenced by Draco’s fear of him. Draco knows how sore of a spot that is for him—of Harry worrying that he’ll frighten and harm anyone he cares about. 

Draco is supposed to be good at reading people, it’s what he does, but with everything that had happened Draco has been distracted from noticing these subtle but important tells in Harry’s body language. He makes a mental note to do better and then quickly moves to address the situation. 

“Easy, Potter,” he says in a playful tone. “I don’t need you vanishing my clothes right along with the sawdust. I’ve only got the one extra set of robes and I’d rather not have to do my laundry buck-arse naked.”

Harry’s expression breaks when he gives a tight smile. It softens even more when Draco steps close to him and begins vanishing the sawdust from him. 

“Unless you’d _like_ to see me running around in the nude?” Draco teases him. He forces himself not to flinch when a new round of sparks flare around them. Harry looks upset by it anyway, so Draco laughs it off. “Yeah, I thought not. So, stand still.”

With the excuse that Draco doesn’t want to accidentally vanish any of Harry’s hair, he brushes his fingers over it again and again to get as much of the sawdust out of it as he can. By the end of this treatment Harry seems amused, but much more relaxed. 

Draco turns his attention to himself and cleans his own hair and robes off. Harry watches this in mild interest, and then says, “You know I have clothes for you, right?”

Draco halts in his grooming to look up at Harry incredulously. “Are you serious?”

Harry tilts his head and furrows his brow, a gesture much too innocent for this level of deceit. “Yeah, I thought you knew.”

“How would I know that?” 

Harry shrugs and Draco huffs in irritation. 

“Well go on then, I would like to wear a fresh pair of clothes now. Please and thank you.” 

Harry shakes his head in amusement but leads him under the wards to his bike. When he pulls out a clean shirt and pair of trousers, Draco grabs them and stares at them in disbelief. 

“These are my clothes!” he cries. “You said that wretched dryer ate these!”

Harry blinks and looks at him first with a sort of blank confusion, and then slowly his expression morphs into comprehension.

“Did you think the dryer literally _ate_ your clothes?” he guffaws. 

“You told me they did!”

Harry laughs even more, and Draco shoves him playfully. Hearing him laugh gives Draco butterflies in his stomach, and he has to tamp down the urge to yank Harry into a kiss. Instead he sticks his nose up at Harry and stalks away to change. 

They eat lunch and stay under the wards for the rest of the day. They made great progress with Harry’s control today, and Draco is feeling much more optimistic about it, so he feels that they deserve to lounge around. 

Draco surreptitiously glances at Harry as he reads, wondering if Harry has been hiding the bookmark all this time, or if Draco just hadn’t noticed. Based on the way Harry keeps it out of sight while he moves it, Draco guesses that Harry has intentionally been keeping it secret.

Later, when they’re sitting next to the fire that night, Harry looks at him at one point. He seems thoughtful, and Draco raises a questioning eyebrow at him. 

“I know you won’t leave, but I do know you don’t like it out here,” Harry says out of the blue.

Draco tilts his head, his gaze moving over Harry’s expression as he tries to understand his purpose in bringing this up again.

“No, I do like it, in some ways,” he begins. Harry raises an eyebrow at him, and Draco smiles and shakes his head. “I do. I like the smell of the forest and the sound of the trees, I like being able to see the stars at night and listen to the crickets.”

Harry hums his agreement.

“And I suppose the company is not _all_ bad,” Draco adds with a smirk. 

Harry’s mouth tips up in the hint of a smile. He is quiet a moment, then prompts, “But?”

“But I miss sleeping in a bed. I miss showers and plumbing. I never feel like I’m clean and these blasted insects are driving me batty. How are you not also getting eaten alive?”

Harry chuckles and shrugs. “Because I’ve got you to distract them with. You must taste extra sweet,” Harry teases him.

“Ah, I see,” Draco drawls. “You just taste bitter because you’ve been so damn grumpy.”

Harry’s lips turn up in the hint of a smile briefly. He looks back to the fire and they fall into silence. Draco watches the embers beneath the wood glow red and orange and yellow. 

They stay out by the fire for a couple hours until the logs have all burned down to ashes and faded embers, and it’s too cold to stay out longer without the fire. 

When Harry moves to leave Draco with a soft, “Good night,” and head toward his sleeping bag, Draco stops him.

“Harry,” he says, “why are you sleeping over there?”

Harry turns back to look at him. It’s impossible to read his expression in the near total darkness. 

“You must be freezing during the night,” Draco adds when Harry is silent for a beat too long. 

“It’s not bad,” Harry says. Draco wishes Harry could see the judgemental look Draco is giving him right now.

“Harry,” Draco begins softly, “you think I haven’t seen the bags under your eyes? You haven’t been getting any sleep.”

Draco makes out the movement of Harry shrugging in the darkness. 

“It’s not going to help us any if you’re not sleeping.”

“I know, but I told you about my sleeping problems,” Harry says warily. 

“And?” Draco asks. Harry is quiet so Draco takes a guess, “Are you worried about losing control while you’re stuck dreaming?”

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

“Well, we’re under your suppression wards and you made great progress today,” Draco points out.

He can just make out Harry’s profile as he looks away in thought. 

When the silence stretches on too long, Draco curiously tries for another tactic. “I’d feel better with you in the tent—safer,” he says softly.

He can see when Harry looks back at him, the reflection of the moon through the trees glinting off his glasses. 

“I don’t like you being so far away. If we’re attacked again…” Draco trails off. He thinks Harry needs the reminder that he is not the enemy here. 

Draco can hear the sigh Harry makes before he gives in. “Alright.”

Draco smiles in relief, somewhat surprised that he was able to get Harry to agree, but glad for it. He turns away, pulling out his wand and casting a Lumos to light their way. 

Inside the tent, Draco quickly changes into his pyjamas and shoves his clothes into his emergency kit. 

When Harry comes up to the open flap and pokes his head in, Draco asks, “Far side or near the door?”

“Door,” Harry answers readily. 

Draco nods and shifts his sleeping pad and bag against the far side of the tent. Harry hesitates briefly before laying his own sleeping pad and bag down in the tent. He toes his shoes off and leaves them outside the tent before crawling in. 

They nearly knock heads when Harry comes in, and Draco tries to lean back to give him space, but then his head slides along the fabric of the tent and makes his hair stand up and reach toward the roof of the tent. Harry chuckles at him and Draco punches his shoulder. 

When the tent has been zipped closed and they are both situated, Draco murmurs a, “ _Nox,_ ” that plunges them again into darkness. 

The space inside the tent feels much different with Harry in it. They both fit, but their sleeping pads are right up against each other and though they aren’t touching, there isn’t much room between their bodies. It doesn’t feel quite like sleeping in the same bed together with the individual sleeping bags keeping them in their own spaces. 

There is still that ever-present sensation of Harry’s magic that Draco is getting accustomed to, not as strong as it is outside the wards, but not as muted as it had been under the stronger wards he’d had at the house. 

While it scares Draco, part of him likes the sensation. He likes being able to physically feel Harry’s magic and know how powerful he is. It suits his Slytherin sensibilities, after all. If he is in danger again he likes to know he has the most powerful wizard alive standing next to him. 

The tent feels so much fuller and less lonely with Harry in it. It’s also warmer from the second body, which Draco appreciates, but having Harry here is making it harder for Draco to fall asleep.

He tosses and turns for a little while, but he can’t relax his mind enough to slip into slumber. The thought and the feel of Harry’s body right next to him is distracting. Draco reminds himself that he and Harry are friends, and that that is the way it needs to be so Draco can stay in Harry’s life. 

Draco turns on his back and stops trying to sleep. He can tell by Harry’s breathing pattern and the small movements he makes that he is not asleep either.

“Harry?” Draco asks. He decides that if neither of them are sleeping he may as well ask some questions that have been nagging at him.

“Yeah?” Harry confirms that he’s awake.

“All this...the tent, the sleeping bags, the food,” he begins slowly, “you were ready for this.” It’s not phrased like a question, but Harry answers him like it is.

“Yeah.” Harry is a quiet a moment before he continues, “The way Hermione kept talking...the way Ron’s arrest seemed to be going. I figured they were looking for you and it would only be a matter of time. I wanted to be prepared.” 

Draco nods, though he’s not sure if Harry can see the movement. 

“Do you like being out here like this?” he echoes Harry’s earlier question back at him.

The wet sound of Harry licking his lips in thought is followed by a short silence before he says, “Yeah. In some ways, the ways you mentioned.”

“But?”

Harry is quiet for a few seconds and then explains, “During the war, when Hermione, Ron and I were on the run, we often camped out in wood like these. It’s been a long time since I’ve even thought about it, but being out here has brought it all up again...being desperate, being scared, being out of the loop.”

Harry trails off, and Draco is not sure how to respond. 

Quietly, Harry adds, “I hate that feeling. Like sitting ducks, waiting for the worst to happen.”

In the pitch black of the tent, where Harry can’t see Draco’s face and Draco can’t see Harry’s, Draco finds that it’s somehow easier to ask about difficult things. Maybe it makes it easier for Harry to talk about too.

“But isn’t that…” Draco hesitates, then cautiously continues, “Isn’t that how you’ve been living all these years? Expecting the worst? Waiting for death?”

Harry is quiet for a beat too long, so Draco probes a little more. 

“Why would you have all those Dark Detectors otherwise?” 

Draco can hear Harry swallowing. “Yeah. You’re right. I always thought...I guess it’s part of why I didn’t go back, you know? I was waiting for those Dark wizards to hunt me down and get rid of me for what I knew. I didn’t want to bring more danger to the people I cared about.” 

Draco quietly hums his acknowledgement. 

“But then part of me thought, why would they?” Harry continues quietly. “Any testimony I could have given would be void because of my addiction. You saw my memories, what they looked like. There’s no way the Wizengamot would accept them as evidence. Maybe that’s why they never bothered with me.”

Draco worries his lip in thought. “But you still didn’t return,” he says carefully. “You were worried you’d hurt them.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, soft enough Draco almost doesn’t catch it. 

“Would you go back now, given the chance?” Draco asks curiously. “If you had control?”

Harry is quiet for so long Draco thinks he won’t answer, but he does. “I’m not sure. It’s been so long, and I...they tried to keep in contact initially, but over the years we drifted apart—Ron and Hermione and I. The Weasley’s too, and Teddy.”

There is another extended pause where Draco waits him out.

“At first, they wrote letters and visited, but I wasn’t good at responding, and it’s a long way to travel just for tea and conversation without a Floo connection. And time just kept moving… Days turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into years. We fell out of contact and eventually there didn’t seem a point in returning anymore.” 

Draco understands all too well how easily the sands of time can slip by unnoticed. 

“But you were all important to each other once,” Draco hedges. “You don’t think they’d welcome you back? 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I have a place there anymore. Or if I want one,” Harry answers flatly.

Draco is not sure what to say about that. His extended silence ends the conversation. Harry turns over and appears to attempt falling sleep once more. 

Draco follows his example and turns on his side, mulling over Harry’s words and the day’s events.

◊ ◊ ◊

The next morning Harry is out of the tent before Draco. Draco wakes briefly from the sound of Harry getting up and leaving, but he drifts back to sleep.

By the time Draco forces himself to get up and out of his sleeping bag, Harry has already finished his workout and is making them breakfast. 

After his morning cleaning routine, Draco sits down to eat and shivers. His Muggle clothes don’t keep him as warm in the cool morning air as his robes did, but he feels a Warming Charm settle over him. 

His eyes briefly flutter closed as he fights the urge to shiver in pleasure, then he looks over at Harry, who is wearing a surprised and then guilty expression, as if he hadn’t thought before casting at Draco. Draco recognises that Harry feels badly because he’s worried he will accidentally hurt him.

Draco tuts at him and brushes the matter aside with, “No wandless magic, Harry. You agreed, only use your wand for magic. It’ll help with control and precision.” 

“Right, sorry,” Harry mutters and then turns to his scrambled eggs. 

Draco tries to hide his own smile, feeling pleased at Harry’s thoughtful gesture.

When they get to Harry’s control training, Harry is once again doing better at keeping his wild magic in check. 

Draco makes a conscious effort not to flinch or step away from Harry, regardless of what his magic does. He even keeps his wand held loosely at his side and doesn’t raise it up once to cast a Shielding Charm. 

Harry still gets frustrated when his magic doesn’t do exactly what he wants, or when he starts sparking, or when his spells are too powerful. 

During one of his downturns, when Harry starts getting more and more frustrated, and Draco can see his cool diminishing and his body tensing up in preparation for a burst of wild magic, Draco instinctively grabs at his hand.

Harry turns a surprised gaze on him and just like that, he stops sparking and the heaviness of his magic in the air lessens to a more manageable level. 

“Relax,” Draco tells him calmly, keeping hold of Harry’s left hand. “Remember you’re not trying to suppress them. You’ve got two magical cores fighting for space inside you, don’t try to cram them both in there together. Let them settle how they want to. It’s okay if there’s still some overflow, you were only built to contain so much, after all.”

Draco keeps his tone low and the cadence of his words soothing. He can feel it working as Harry takes his words to heart and is able to calm down.

“Channel some of that overflow into your wand, show it another path it can run through you,” Draco continues after Harry’s had a moment of calm. “You don’t need to reach for it or push it out the way you used to cast, now the magic is already there, brimming and ready to take form. Tell it what it’s going to be now, don’t let it decide on its own.”

Harry raises his wand and tries casting again. This time his Colour-Changing Charm only turns a handful of their pile of leaves from brown to deep purple, rather than the entire pile. It’s a marked improvement and Draco grins and squeezes Harry’s hand in excitement.

The hint of a tentative smile pulls at Harry’s lips, and Draco bumps shoulders with him. “Beautiful. It’s a great progress, Harry. What do you say we call it a day—end on a good note?”

Harry agrees, and they walk back into camp hand-in-hand. Once they are under the wards Draco becomes self-conscious about holding Harry’s hand so he drops it. If Harry looks vaguely disappointed by this, Draco brushes the notion away and reasons that he’s merely projecting his own desires onto Harry.

“That’s five hours you spent outside the wards without anything major going wrong, I think we’ve finally figured out the recipe to help you keep control,” Draco says casually as he heads to the camping stove to begin lunch. 

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Harry says quietly, avoiding Draco’s eye contact as he digs around in his bag for the bread.

Draco looks at him curiously, then brushes off Harry’s subdued attitude. He hums a tune under his breath while helping Harry fix sandwiches for them. 

Draco wishes he had access to a Wizarding library and could find some texts about magical cores and getting control of them when things go wrong. He doubts he’ll find any examples of a situation quite like Harry’s, but he’s sure with enough digging he could find some insight.

When he was younger he remembers reading through several books in the Manor’s library that were about the magical cores of witches and wizards, how they intertwine with the magic user’s spirit and how they respond to their user. 

Draco has been trying to recall what he can of those readings from so long ago and use that knowledge to help guide Harry, and some of it has been useful. 

When he thinks more on his impulse to grab Harry’s hand and how it helped Harry get his magic under control, he’s not surprised. Affection and physical contact has always seemed to relax Harry, so it makes sense it would also work to ground him when he’s losing control. 

That night, before Harry can sit down in his armchair to eat his dinner, on impulse Draco transfigures their armchairs into a loveseat. 

“I’m cold,” Draco answers primly when Harry raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “This way we’ll be warmer.”

After only a short hesitation, Harry gives in and settles down onto the loveseat with his leg creating a warm line against Draco’s. 

As they eat dinner Draco prattles on about some inane subject, the rising price of brooms with the decline in quality of wood and how the Quidditch supply industry is going down the toilet. 

He notices the relaxed set to Harry’s shoulders, the softness of his gaze, and the slight upward tilt of his mouth. For a moment it’s almost like they’re back at the house, cooking meals together, arguing fondly about what to eat and how to cook it while bumping shoulders and sharing space. 

Draco didn’t realise exactly how much he missed that until now, and he wants to be back in that small, intimate, space they had created. 

Lost in the feeling of easy companionship they had before, Draco forgets all about his concerns with Damian taking over the Ministry, with being blamed for Minister Shacklebolt’s death, and with Ron being interrogated in jail. 

When they go to bed that night, Draco does his regular dance of turning this way and that, trying to find the most comfortable spot he can on the thin sleeping pad. 

After he’s failed to find a comfortable position to rest in and his face is feeling too cold and exposed, Draco hesitates, then scoots closer to Harry and presses the side of his face to Harry’s shoulder.

Harry makes a sleepy, questioning note at Draco.

“My nose is cold,” Draco mumbles against his bare shoulder. 

Harry hums a flat note of understanding and rolls his face toward Draco, bumping his chin against his head before settling against him, cheek pressed to the top of Draco’s head and breath tickling his hair.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an instance of homophobic and racist slurs (not said by H or D).

The next day goes even better with Harry’s training. He manages to go the whole session without a single spark or accident. Draco stays close to Harry and rubs a hand over his shoulder or takes his hand when he starts to get frustrated, finding again that it helps to ground Harry.

Feeling optimistic of the day’s results and eager to contact Hermione, Draco suggests that they try it. Harry argues with him, saying it’s just one day of good results, to which Draco argues back that they’ve had _three_ good days. 

Still, Harry seems too worried about venturing into a Muggle space so they make a deal. They are both anxious about having stayed in the same place for so long, so they will do a trial run of moving the camp and see how Harry handles that. 

Harry breaks down the tent while Draco vanishes the loveseat and the evidence of their firepit, and then he packs their things back into the saddlebags on the bike. 

They do a last sweep of the camp before turning to each other expectantly. 

“Ready?” Draco asks, and Harry nods slowly. When Harry hesitates, Draco steps closer and takes his hand. 

Harry gives him a small smile, then takes a breath, and raises his wand. Layer by layer, Harry carefully unravels his wards until all that’s left is his Magic Suppression Ward. Draco gives his hand a squeeze, then Harry takes the spell down. 

The difference in Harry’s magic is felt immediately, as if the magic has been pushing to get out of him again and eagerly flows out once the ward is removed. But where Harry’s magic before had burst out in wild explosions, now it gently rises to the surface and spills over serenely. 

It feels not unlike the way it has the past few mornings when Harry left the wards to work on his control, but every time it’s been getting easier for him.

“See? Nothing to be worried about,” Draco says smugly and bumps Harry’s shoulder. 

Harry snorts but relaxes that extra bit. He looks around, then furrows his brow and looks back at Draco to ask hesitantly, “Do you want to Apparate…?”

Draco remembers the sensation of Apparating with Harry last time and no thank you. Regardless of how well Harry is doing right now, he is still too powerful and Draco would rather not risk a splinching. 

“Uhm, how about something else,” Draco suggests, glancing away and then nodding towards Harry’s bike. “Does that fly?”

Harry glances at the motorbike and nods. “It’s been a while since I’ve used it, but it should. I checked the charms and did a little maintenance before I sent it here.”

“Alright then,” Draco says decisively.

Harry ties his hair back in a messy bun, then he flicks his wand over Draco and himself. Draco shivers as he feels the Protection Charm settle over his skin like a heavy velvet cloak. 

Harry mounts the bike and kick starts the engine, flips the kickstand up and balances the bike, then he looks over at Draco. “Come on then,” Harry says and jerks his head, gesturing toward the bike. 

Seeing Harry on the rumbling motorbike, wearing his leather jacket and an easy smile does things to Draco that he valiantly tries to ignore. Draco bites his lip and then climbs on the back of the bike with Harry, suddenly nervous about touching him despite how tactile they have been lately. 

When Draco rests his hands tentatively on Harry’s hips, Harry grabs them and pulls them around his torso, dragging Draco further up the seat and flush against Harry’s back. 

“Hold on tight,” Harry says over his shoulder at Draco, then eases the bike forward. He circles it around the camp, lining up with the longest, flattest strip of ground and then takes off. The bike accelerates faster than Draco is anticipating, and he clutches tighter to Harry. 

They are barrelling straight for a large root sticking out of the ground, and Draco is sure they are going to hit it and crash. He closes his eyes and his body tenses in anticipation, but then Draco’s stomach drops and the ground is falling out beneath them. 

Draco opens his eyes in time to watch Harry confidently guide them up and out of the trees. His heart is hammering in his chest as he looks down and watches the forest get smaller as they climb higher and higher. 

It’s exhilarating. 

Draco can’t remember the last time he flew anywhere, and while this feels similar to riding a broom, it’s not quite the same either. It feels powerful and thrilling and...somewhat erotic. 

The intoxicating rush of flying again, of feeling the wind whipping through his hair and the ground falling away, paired with the vibration of the engine beneath his seat and the intimacy of being pressed against Harry’s back, has his cock slowly filling. Draco hopes Harry can’t feel his hardness and he tries to think of things to get rid of it. 

After a while the initial rush fades and the ride becomes more comfortable. Draco relaxes his grip somewhat on Harry’s jacket and rests his head against Harry’s shoulder, watching the Scottish countryside pass by far below them. 

They fly for about half an hour before deciding on a spot to land. Draco had insisted on choosing somewhere near a water source where he can bathe, so when he spots a loch, nestled deep in the country in a ring of hills and forest, he points it out.

Harry turns them toward it and eases the bike lower, touching down on a small strip of sandy shore and smoothly bringing the motorbike to a halt. The entire ride had gone beautifully without Harry losing control once, and after they get off the bike and Draco gets a look at him, he is not surprised by it anymore. 

Harry’s body looks relaxed while his eyes shine with delight. His hair is windblown and his cheeks are flushed from the wind. Seeing him like this brings back old memories of Harry after a Quidditch match back at Hogwarts.

Draco can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips and he chuckles at the wild mess atop Harry’s head. He reaches out and tries to smooth down some of the more unruly strands. Harry seems amused by the attempt, but he allows Draco a moment of fiddling before Draco gives up. 

“Come on, let’s get camp set up,” Harry says, guiding the motorbike up the beach toward a flat plane of grass with trees beyond. 

“You don’t want to stay here?” Draco asks, looking longingly out at the water for a second before catching up to Harry. 

“It’ll be colder by the water,” Harry says, looking to Draco for his opinion. 

Draco hums. “I guess you’re right.” 

They find a flat spot under the trees to set up the tent and cast their wards. 

As soon as that’s done, Draco races down to the water and strips out of his shoes, socks, shirt and trousers. He leaves on his undershirt and pants and then trots into the water. 

Draco gasps when the cold water hits his feet, then again when it’s up to his stomach. He breathes in and out sharply for a few seconds as his body adjusts to it. When he gets deep enough he does a few breaststrokes, taking him out far enough that his feet can’t touch, and then he spins around in the water, his hands and feet gliding back and forth to keep him afloat. 

Harry is standing on the shore, hands in his jacket pockets, watching Draco. His expression is hard to read with the distance, but he seems amused. His body language is still relaxed, leaning more on one leg. 

“Come on!” Draco calls to him. “The water feels _fantastic._ ” 

Harry smiles but doesn’t say anything, he seems to be hesitating or thinking it over. When he glances back to the campsite as if he is considering reading or cooking or something boring, Draco slips his wand into his hand from its holster and flicks it. 

A jet of water shoots out of the loch right at Harry, and Harry tries to jump back away from it, but most of his shirt and almost all of his jeans still get soaked. Draco laughs when Harry cries out in dismay and glares at him. 

“So that’s how you want to play it, eh?” Harry yells at him, yanking off his jacket, tossing his glasses down onto it, then pulling his Henley over his head. He kicks off his shoes and jerks the jeans off, having to fight with the wet material and almost falling over in the process, which only makes Draco laugh harder, and then he’s treading into the water in naught but his pants with a determined expression and a bold, unhurried stride that trips all sort of warning flags in Draco’s brain. 

“Oh, shite,” Draco mutters, holserting his wand and then starting to swim further away. 

When he stops to turn and look back, Harry is advancing on him faster than he expected, and Draco starts to back away, paddling backward and holding his hands up in entreaty. 

“Wait, wait, no, I’m sorry!” Draco pleads as Harry gets closer and closer. 

Harry is smirking and Draco splashes at him to slow him down, but it only distracts him briefly. 

“No, no, no!” Draco cries, grinning ear-to-ear as Harry gets within arm’s reach.

Harry ducks down beneath the water and Draco tries to kick out of his grip when he feels Harry grabbing at his legs. He feels Harry’s neck and shoulders slotting beneath him as if he’s sitting on Harry’s shoulders, then Harry kicks up from the lake bottom and launches Draco out of the water. 

Draco screams as he’s flying into the air, then only just gets his nose plugged before his back hits the water and he plunges beneath the surface. 

He sputters and wipes his eyes when he comes back up. Harry is laughing at him, and Draco dives at him. He pushes Harry’s shoulders down and dunks him under the water.

Harry comes back up with a splash, looking ready for revenge. 

“No, no, no!” Draco hollers in a playful act of resistance and tries to swim away. Harry gets a hold of his ankle under the water and reels him back in, then grabs at his waist and _throws_ him up into the air with Draco screeching all the while. 

After falling back under the water, Draco finds Harry and grabs at his leg and pulls him under. They both come up laughing, and Draco wipes the water out of his eyes while Harry smooths his hair back out of his face. 

As the laughing dies down, Draco looks at Harry with a warm smile, feeling happier than he has felt in a long time. He can’t even remember the last time he had been this carefree and had played like a child. Probably not since before the war. 

Harry is looking at Draco with an equally warm expression, his eyes bright and the deep lines of his crow’s feet highlighting the joy there. His thick, dark eyelashes clump together with drops of water and he has curls of hair stuck to his forehead. The colour of Harry’s eyes seems so much more intense, made greener by the rich blue of the sky and the water reflected in them, and for once not hidden behind his glasses.

Their hands and feet paddle leisurely through the water, keeping them afloat without too much effort. Their feet bump against each other under the water. Harry drifts a little closer and his hand lands on Draco’s hip. 

Draco hums a curious note, and watches as Harry’s eyes drop to Draco’s lips. Draco blinks, understanding the body language but not fully comprehending it from Harry. 

Harry moves slowly as he pulls them together and leans in, pressing his lips to Draco’s, but Draco is still taken off guard by the action and sucks in a surprised breath. 

When he starts to feel Harry moving away, Draco’s hand shoots up and grabs at the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him in while pressing himself harder against Harry. He wraps his other arm around Harry’s shoulders and makes a small, needy noise, kissing Harry back desperately. 

They move in tandem against each other, and when Draco opens his mouth Harry does as well. Their tongues meet and slide together, exploring and discovering a satisfying rhythm of kissing and tonguing. 

Draco’s hand slides up into the hair at the base of Harry’s neck, and Harry’s hand moves around Draco’s waist to pull their hips together. Their legs keep bumping against each other as their move to keep them afloat, and sometimes, when the pattern gets interrupted, they dip a little too deep into the water and get their chins wet. 

After the last time they get too distracted kissing and sink a little too low into the water, they break apart with a soft chuckle. 

Draco brings his hand around to smooth up Harry’s chin, rubbing against his beard as he pulls back far enough to look into Harry’s eyes. 

Harry looks content, the happiness just as present in his eyes as it was before. He’s still got an arm around Draco’s waist, and he doesn’t look ready to run or apologise, which Draco can only take as a good sign.

Draco starts to wonder what the kiss means—if Harry has feelings for him, if it was spur of the moment or if the attraction is mutual. He wants to know if this is going to lead to more, or if Harry just wants—

Harry leans in presses his lips to Draco’s again in a chaste kiss. He pulls back and smiles fondly at Draco, and Draco slowly returns the smile. 

“I’m going to wash up, then get dinner started,” Harry says softly. 

“Alright,” Draco answers, searching Harry’s face again for any hint of regret but not finding any. “I think I’ll stay out a little longer, enjoy the water.”

“Okay.” Harry lingers for another moment, and that small, soft smile is still there when he turns away and makes his way back to shore. 

Draco watches Harry as he swims away, moving to where he’s at knee-depth before stopping. Harry pulls the hair tie out of his hair, conjures shampoo and begins to lather his hair. 

Draco bites down hard onto his bottom lip to keep from squealing like a besotted teen. He kicks his legs out in front of him and falls onto his back, floating languidly across the surface of the loch. 

Above him the sky stretches out wide and so blue, dotted only with a few sparse clouds and ringed by the mountains and hills and forests of the Scottish Highlands. The air is clean and crisp, and, now that his body is adjusted to the temperature, the water feels almost like a warm balm against his skin, washing away all the stress and anxiety and doubts that have been plaguing his mind. 

It feels surreal, as if Draco is floating through a dream. Draco closes his eyes, listens to the sound of the water moving and the birds singing, and lets the feeling sink into him.

He lets all his worries slip from his mind and simply appreciates the beauty of the world around him. He feels it all the way down to his core, a rightness of his place in the universe, and he imagines how wonderful it would be to stay out here with Harry and experience this every day. 

It’s a perfect moment, and Draco wants to feel like this forever. He wants to encapsulate this moment in his mind and carry it with him through the rest of his life. 

When his fingers start to prune and the scent of dinner carries across the water, it’s time to get out. 

He swims to shore and conjures soap and shampoo which he eagerly washes himself with, finally feeling truly clean. 

Draco casts Drying and Warming charms on his underclothes, then he pulls on the clothes he left at the shore. 

When he walks back into camp, Harry looks over at him and gives him a small smile, and Draco smiles back. Harry looks to be almost finished cooking, so Draco gets the plates out and ready for him. He goes to conjure their armchairs, then pauses and thinks on it before changing course and conjuring the loveseat. 

“Thank you for cooking,” Draco says as he accepts the plate Harry hands him.

“Sure,” Harry says easily and sits next to Draco on the couch, his leg pressing against Draco’s. 

Harry turns his head and leans toward Draco, and Draco is still a little surprised by the whole affair, but he easily turns and catches the short kiss Harry gives him. 

“How was the water?” Harry asks after turning his attention back to his food. 

“Brilliant,” Draco answers with a smile. 

“Feel better?”

“Much.” 

They exchange another small smile, and then eat the rest of their dinner in companionable silence. It all feels so normal and domestic. Part of Draco wonders if he is hallucinating the whole thing, but another part of him feels the absolute rightness of it. 

In the back of Draco’s mind, he’s still wondering at Harry’s motivations and interest in Draco. He wants to ask, but there has already been so much time spent building trust and affection between them that Draco almost feels silly for wanting to know if Harry really means it. 

Of course he means it. Harry is too passionate a person to do anything halfway, even if he tries to hide that passion behind a stoic mask Draco knows it’s still there.

Honestly, what worries Draco more is that he won’t be good for Harry. Draco doesn’t have a single positive relationship in his life that he can point to and say, ‘See, I’m not cursed to hurt and drive away everyone I care about.’ 

Draco is worried he won’t be able to keep Harry in his life the way he has been planning on and trying so hard to do. Romance can strain and test even the best of friendships, and Draco knows he is nowhere near one of the best friendships Harry has had.

But he wants this. He wants Harry, and in the end, Draco has never been good at denying himself the things he wants most. 

When they are finished eating, Draco takes Harry’s plate and sets them to washing while Harry builds up a fire. This location is windier and feels colder than their last campsite. 

Harry turns back toward Draco after the fire is burning nicely, and Draco reaches out for him. Harry takes his hand and Draco uses it to yank him forward, into his lap.

“Come warm me up,” Draco insists, and Harry chuckles but obligingly straddles his lap.

Draco circles his arms around Harry’s neck and reels him into a kiss. It’s soft and unhurried. Draco runs his fingers up into Harry’s hair, and Harry’s slides one hand up Draco’s chest to grip behind his neck while the other arm drapes across the back of the couch.

Draco thrills in the sensation of Harry’s beard rubbing against his chin occasionally. It’s long enough now past the stubble phase that it feels soft, rather than prickly as their mouths slot together, cycling between opening and closing to tongue and kiss and occasionally switch angles. 

Draco nips at Harry’s bottom lip and Harry makes a small noise of surprise. Draco can feel Harry’s mouth move up in a smile, then Harry breaks off from their kiss. His thumb presses against the underside of Draco’s jaw to tilt it back as he dips his head down, rubbing his beard over Draco’s sensitive neck.

Draco yelps and squirms away from the ticklish sensation, laughing with Harry about it. When the initial shock of it fades, and Harry keeps rubbing against his neck and starts to suck a mark into it, Draco tilts his head back further and a quiet moan slips out of his parted lips. 

His fingers tighten and grab a handful of Harry’s hair, and his hips rock up involuntarily. Draco’s neck has always been a sensitive and large erogenous zone for him, and he loves being touched or kissed or bitten on his neck, though it’s an area that has been overlooked by past lovers all too often. 

Harry, on the other hand, seems perfectly happy to take his time finding all the ways to drive Draco crazy with it. On one side of Draco’s neck Harry is tracing the tips of his fingers lightly over the skin while his mouth is working the other, rubbing his beard against it, kissing it and sucking the skin in between his teeth. 

When he pulls back, Harry’s gaze lingers on the marks he’s surely left on Draco’s neck, then he looks to Draco, who is biting his lip and flushed with pleasure. 

Throughout their kissing they have both been semi-hard, but then Harry rolls hips down against Draco’s, and Draco can feel how they are now both fully hard and pressing against the seams of their trousers. 

Draco tugs on Harry’s hair to bring him back down into a more heated kiss. 

They spend the next few minutes rocking against each other, frotting lightly as they kiss more deeply. Draco grips at Harry’s shoulders and back, pulling and pushing against him and trying to get him to speed up, but Harry smiles briefly against his lips and keeps his pace languid. 

After a while Harry breaks off from the kiss to duck his head against Draco’s shoulder and yawn. 

“Shit, sorry,” Harry says apologetically. “It’s like this—comes on suddenly.” 

Draco licks his lips and swallows. “That’s alright,” he says slowly, pushing down the intense need to keep rubbing against Harry until they reach completion. He scratches his fingers up through Harry’s beard, rubbing his palm to Harry’s chin. “You haven’t been sleeping much lately, have you?”

Harry shakes his head slightly, then hums a content note from the attention, and his eyes close briefly. 

“You know, you got through today without any outbursts.” Draco says when he remembers that he wanted to point this out to Harry.

Harry’s eyes widen briefly, then shift around in thought as he considers the information. After a moment he nods. “Yeah, you’re right.” He yawns widely. “I should get in the tent, otherwise I’ll pass out here and you’ll have to carry me in.”

Draco huffs quietly in amusement. “Nonsense, I’d just drag you in by your ankles with a Mobilicorpus.”

Harry chuckles at the visual that creates. He leans down for one more peck on the lips, then manoeuvres himself off Draco’s lap and disappears into the tent. 

Draco stays out by the fire a while longer, conjuring a blanket to curl up under. He presses a palm to his erection, moaning quietly from the pressure. 

He reviews the highlights of their kissing session, thinking over the attention Harry laid on his neck and brings a hand up to touch the abused skin, warm from the beard rubbing against it and marked with spots that are already turning into bruises. 

He could come so easily thinking about it and contemplates masturbating, but then he decides to hold off. The extra tension will make it that much better when they fall into bed together.

He waits until the logs in the firepit burn down, douses the remaining embers and then joins Harry in the tent. He tries not to disturb Harry when he climbs in over him, but Harry is dead asleep, and none of Draco’s accidental jostling wakes him. 

Draco changes into his pyjamas, refreshes a Cushioning Charm on his sleeping pad, then climbs into his sleeping bag and snuggles up to Harry’s side, using his shoulder as a pillow.

◊ ◊ ◊

In the morning Harry is already up and working out when Draco wakes up. Draco goes through his morning routine of relieving his bladder on a tree outside the camp, shaving and putting on his face products. Only now, instead of cleaning charms, Draco gets to go to the loch and bath in _water_ with _soap._

Draco scrubs his fingers through his hair, working up a good lather and revelling in the clean feeling of it. He dunks himself back into the water, running his fingers through his hair to get all the shampoo out before surfacing.

Draco takes in a deep breath, wiping the water from his eyes and smoothing his hair back off his forehead. 

Movement in the corner of his eye draws his attention to shore, where Harry is standing in his workout clothes. He’s panting with a hand on his hip and sweat stains on his shirt, like he just finished running. 

Harry has an easy smile on his face as his eyes roam over Draco’s body. Draco is deep enough that his waist is below the water, but he’s naked this time in the loch and can’t help feeling self-conscious with Harry looking at him. 

Harry has surely already seen Draco changing, but now it feels different. Harry isn’t just looking at him, he’s _looking_ at him. Draco doesn’t mind his gaze, but it carries more weight now that they have started this thing between them. 

Draco smiles coyly, wondering if he could entice him into the water. Harry even looks like he considers it, but he is always adamant about eating as soon as possible after his workout, even before showering. 

“Egg in a basket?” Harry asks him, and Draco nods. 

Harry leaves to start breakfast while Draco finishes washing. He sets his laundry to cleaning itself in the water before joining Harry in their camp. 

They eat breakfast then move outside their wards and go through their routine of Harry practicing simple spells while keeping his magic in check. 

After two hours of it, Draco is satisfied that Harry isn’t going to backslide and anxiously wants to move on. 

“Once again, you haven’t had a single outburst of magic today, now can we please go find a phone to contact Hermione with?” Draco pleads, cutting Harry’s practice short. 

Harry still looks uncertain and chews on his bottom lip instead of answering. 

“You’ve been doing so well at keeping your magic under control, I really think you can do this, Harry,” Draco says, then adds, “and you agreed to this yesterday.”

Harry frowns but nods. “Alright.”

Draco grins, grabs Harry by the jaw and reels him in for a quick kiss. He breaks away almost as soon as Harry is over the surprise and starts to kiss back, yanking Harry’s arm to pull him forward and then pushing him back toward camp. 

“Alright, alright,” Harry says and laughs, jogging out of Draco’s reach and then flashing a grin back at him. 

Draco takes immense pleasure in every instance he gets a response like this out of Harry now—him laughing and grinning and openly showing emotion. 

Harry kickstarts the motorbike and walks it out of camp. Draco follows, then jumps on behind him and they take off into the air. 

The feeling is just as exhilarating the second time, and Draco grins in delight, clutching at Harry and watching the world fly by beneath them. 

When Harry spots a backcountry road he eases the motorbike lower, then touches down onto it when there are no other automobiles around. 

They follow the road for a while, not sure exactly where it’s taking them or what they will find but knowing that eventually they will come across something that should have a public phone they can use. 

After a while they start to see a few houses pass by, and it’s not too long until they come across a bar. Harry pulls over in front of it and turns the bike off, puts the kickstand down and lets Draco get off before he dismounts as well. 

Draco glances over at Harry, watching the way he licks his lips and his eyes shift around, from the bar to the road, to the other cars parked by it, to the buildings further down the road. He can feel the magic ebbing out of Harry as usual and gets the same metallic taste in his mouth from it, but Harry isn’t sparking so that is a good sign.

Sensing his nervousness, Draco reaches out and takes Harry’s hand. Harry shoots him a small, grateful smile, and they head inside the bar.

The inside is dimly lit and smoky, smelling of cigarettes and stale beer. A long bar stretches along one wall and small tables and chairs are scattered around the rest of the space. The room is mostly empty of people, but there is a weathered bartender behind the bar and several patrons scattered around the tables and a few more sitting at the bar. 

Harry moves further inside slowly, eyes shifting around it in the careful, assessing manner Draco recognises not as someone looking for a phone, but someone looking for a threat. 

Draco shifts closer to Harry so their shoulders brush and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. Harry glances at him with a small, grateful look, one corner of his mouth tipping up for a second and then gone again.

Draco tips his head in gesture to far side of the bar, where there is a telephone hanging on the wall. Harry’s eyes follow the movement and spot the phone.

“What can I get you, lads?” the bartender asks them in a thick, Scottish brogue. 

It draws their attention from the phone and the purpose of their visit, but it would seem strange if they came in and didn’t order anything. Harry glances once more to Draco in question, and Draco gives him a small nod. 

Just looking at all the bottles of spirits lined behind the bar has Draco wetting his bottom lip. He hasn’t had a drink since the night Harry pulled out a bottle of scotch, and he has missed having regular access to alcohol. 

“Two pints,” Harry says shortly, stepping closer to the bar, “whatever’s on tap.”

He pulls a Muggle note from his pocket and puts it on the bar. They accept the two glasses that are sat in front of them a minute later and Draco takes a small sip of the lager. 

“You want change?” 

Harry waves it away dismissively, and the barkeep takes the note. 

Still keeping hold of Harry, Draco leads them over to the phone. Harry sets his pint down on a small shelf by the phone, then digs in his pocket for some coins and feeds them into the machine. 

Harry picks up the receiver and dials Hermione’s number. Draco stands on Harry’s left side and presses close to him. Harry holds the phone up between them and tilts it so they both can hear. 

It rings several times and Draco worries they might have to camp out in the pub and keep trying to connect with Hermione throughout the day, but then she picks up.

“Hello?” they hear her tinny but recognisable voice. 

“Hermione,” Harry says by way of greeting. 

“Harry!” she exclaims in a whisper, and they can hear shuffling and movement from the other end of the line before she speaks again, still in a low voice, “What’s happened? I’ve been trying to call you. Are you okay? Are you with Draco?”

“I’m here,” Draco answers. “Harry’s phone broke when Damian’s men attacked us.”

They hear an indignant huff. “I was so furious when I heard about it. Are you safe? Where are you?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” Draco answers, hesitating then deciding better of saying where they are. “Tell us what’s going on with the Ministry. Is Shacklebolt really dead?”

Hermione sighs, and Draco can clearly visualise her rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. “Yes, the funeral was two days ago,” she says with a mournful strain to her voice. “They’re blaming you for it, Draco. I’m not sure why or how since they haven’t got any proof, but Damian is claiming Harry was involved since you were staying with him.” 

“Any idea who killed him?” Harry asks, and there is a tightness in his expression which reminds Draco that Harry and the Minister had been friends in the war and the years after, before Harry was ousted from the Aurors. 

“I have my suspicions…” Hermione says quietly, pausing and then saying in an even softer voice, “Honestly? I think Damian arranged it. I think he saw a chance and found an easy scapegoat in Draco. With Ron in jail and his reputation in question, Damian’s men have completely taken over the DMLE. What better opportunity to commit murder than when you are in control of the investigation?”

Harry makes eye contact with Draco.

“We’ve thought the same, actually,” Draco says. “And with the Minister’s background as an Auror it would be all too easy to say he was killed by a Dark wizard with a grudge.”

“Exactly,” Hermione agrees. “Which plays perfectly into Damian’s Anti-Dark Arts platform. Now Damian’s got the Wizengamot to declare a State of Emergency and they named him Acting Minister for Magic.”

“Fuck,” Draco mutters.

“Yeah. I don’t know how much longer I can fight him, I’m trying to convince as many members of the Wizengamot as I can of Ron’s innocence, but Damian has so many of them in his pocket already. I’m worried if I talk to the wrong person I’ll get thrown in the holding cell next to him, and then who will defend him?”

There is a long pause where Hermione sighs, then she continues in a tired voice, “I’m barely keeping him out of Azkaban as it is. Damian is dragging out all of Ron’s old casefiles in the trial, trying to prove he’s been working against the Ministry all this time. All while trying to discredit every witness I bring to testify to his character.”

Draco can feel how with every word and every passing minute, the tension is growing in Harry’s body. He needs Harry to stay calm and not lose control so they don’t destroy the telephone and draw the attention of the Ministry. He drops his hand from Harry’s to slide it up his back under his jacket, rubbing soothing circles in it and pressing himself closer to Harry’s side.

Harry consciously releases the breath he has been holding and presses a distracted kiss to Draco’s cheekbone as his arm slides around Draco’s waist.

“Surely there’s something that can be done,” Draco hedges, though he doesn’t sound terribly optimistic. 

“I don’t know,” Hermione grinds out. “I’m _trying,_ but it’s like the War all over again. People going missing, people being dragged in for questioning, Purebloods having to prove they have no relation to Draco and no connection to the Dark Arts. Minerva told me Damian is even trying to force her to instigate a new curriculum.”

“Merlin,” Draco mutters. 

“I just—I just don’t understand how people can still support him! How are they not all having flashbacks of the War?” Hermione rages. “He’s using that as a platform for his policies, scaring people into thinking it will happen again, all the while employing the same fucking methods to seize control!”

They can hear Hermione’s angry, laboured breathing on the other end of the line for a long moment, until she releases a slow breath.

“Sorry, I just—I’m doing what I can. It’s been a frustrating process.”

“Of course, we know you’re doing your best,” Harry says.

“It’s just frustrating for us to be out of the loop and not able to help in any way,” Draco adds.

“I know,” Hermione says in a gentler tone, “if there were any way you _could_ help of course I would bring you in, but you’re the most wanted wizards in Britain right now, and your notoriety won’t help any. Your faces are splashed over every Wizarding paper from here to Inverness. Except The Quibbler, of course.”

Draco lets out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Tell Luna thanks from us.”

Hermione hums an amused note, quiet for a moment and then sighing. 

“I just wish there were some way to prove what Damian has been up to. I’ve been trying to dig anything up on him that I can, and Luna is investigating him too, but we can’t find anything. The bastard is squeaky clean. Suspiciously so,” Hermione says, again bringing her voice down to a quieter level. “He rose through the Wizengamot and came into the position of Chief Warlock so young, and now Minister. I’ve no doubt he’s used some questionable, if not flat out illegal methods for doing so.”

“It’s crossed my mind more than once,” Draco says, still idly scratching patterns across Harry’s back. 

“Anyway, keep doing what you’re doing. Stay out of sight. Neither of you will be of any use in Azkaban.” 

“Right.” Draco sighs in resignation. 

“Is this your new number, Harry?” Hermione asks as an afterthought.

“No, payphone,” he answers. 

“Hm, well text me if you get a new mobile? I’ll try to keep you updated,” she says. “Anyway, I need to go. Stay safe.”

“You too,” Harry and Draco say at the same time. 

Harry hangs up the receiver, then he puts more coins in the machine and dials another number. He brings the receiver back up between them, letting Draco listen again.

“Harry?”

“May,” Harry answers.

“Oh, thank God. I’ve been worried sick about you!” May exclaims in a reproachful tone. “Are you hurt? What happened?” 

“We’re alright,” Harry says, hesitating as he tries to figure out a way to word his next sentence. “We...we ran into a bit of trouble with the wizards who are after Draco.”

“A _bit_ of trouble?” she echoes incredulously. “I saw the house, Harry. Did you lose control? Where are you?”

“I—yeah, but it’s okay, we’re fine,” Harry says uncomfortably. 

Harry’s eyes dart over to Draco briefly. Draco’s lips lift in a small smile and he lifts his beer to his lips, sipping at it while Harry talks to May and continues to drag his fingertips around Harry’s back in random patterns.

“You’re with Draco?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Harry answers.

“Good, don’t leave him. You’re better with company.” 

Draco smirks and Harry glances over to him again and rolls his eyes. His hand on Draco’s hip shoots up and tickles his side, making Draco yelp and jump. His beer sloshes and spills over the rim onto his fingers, and he glares at Harry. 

Harry gives him a shit-eating grin, moving his hand back down and squeezing Draco’s hip. 

Draco sets his glass next to Harry’s and then stares directly at him as he moves his hand up to his mouth and starts to lick the fingers clean.

“Harry?” May says through the receiver. 

“Yeah?” Harry answers distractedly, his eyes fixed on Draco’s lips as Draco starts to suck on his fingers one at a time, slowly sliding them in and out of his mouth. 

“Was that Draco?” May asks. 

“Er, yeah,” Harry says again, biting at his bottom lip. When his eyes move up to Draco’s again, Draco gives him a wink and then wipes his hand off on Harry’s shirt. Harry makes an offended noise and tries to twist his body away.

“Okay, well, I need to tell you something,” May says slowly, and the serious tone of her voice erases the playful atmosphere between them. 

Harry and Draco make eye contact, then Harry looks away as he asks, “What is it?”

May hesitates, then she says, “Some men came and searched the shelters, looking for you and Draco.”

The change in Harry’s body language is immediate; his expression hardens and his posture tenses. “Which ones?”

“All of them,” she answers.

“Breathe, Harry,” Draco reminds him quietly, laying a palm flat against Harry’s chest. “Deep breath in, deep breath out.”

Harry takes a moment to follow Draco’s instructions, but his magic still feels sharper and denser than it did before.

“Was anyone hurt?” Harry asks through clenched teeth.

“No,” May says, and Draco can feel Harry’s small bit of relief from the answer. “But many of the residents have disappeared.”

“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”

“Not that they were taken,” May clarifies quickly, “just that they were afraid to come back.” 

Harry takes a few more deep breaths, actively working to keep his emotions and magic in check. Draco keeps rubbing at his back with one hand and encouraging deep breathing with the other.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I did as discussed.” 

“Sorry,” Harry says, wincing slightly. “Being connected to me right now isn’t safe for you. I don’t want you to take any risks.”

“It’s fine, I’m staying with a friend,” May says easily. “It’s like a holiday, but with cat allergies.”

Harry laughs shortly, but it sounds somewhat strained. 

“I broke my phone. I’ll text you if I get a new one,” Harry says. 

“Alright, take care of yourselves.”

Harry hangs up and then swallows thickly. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and he looks to Draco. “I need to get out of here.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Draco turns and leads them toward the exit, his arm still around Harry’s back and Harry’s arm gripping at his waist. 

As they’re passing by some of the tables, one of the patrons stands up abruptly and knocks into Draco, which sets Draco off balance and makes him bump into Harry.

“Watch it, faggot,” the man growls drunkenly. 

Draco makes an offended noise and his mouth drops open, shocked at his rudeness. 

“What did you say?” Harry snarls, pushing Draco back a step as he moves to get in the guy’s face. 

The man is clearly drunk off his arse and looks like this is his usual state since it’s barely noon and he’s already bladdered. He is an older man, with a scraggly yellow-stained beard, a large beer belly, and a general unkempt appearance. 

He eyes Harry up and down like he’s squaring him up for a fight, and the man has a clear height and weight advantage on Harry, but he has no idea the reaction he’s about to set off.

Harry’s fists are clenched and his magic is coming off him in rougher waves, tasting distinctly like lightning. He was already on edge after talking to May, and Draco knows he is a hair’s breadth away from exploding. 

Draco grabs at Harry’s arm and tugs at it while he mutters, “Ignore him, Harry. Let’s just get out of here.”

“Listen to your girlfriend, Curry Muncher,” the man spits, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, there’s the sharp sound of glass breaking and Draco flinches. 

There is a delay of about half a second when the man looks down at his hand where he had just been holding his empty pint, sees the broken shards of glass stuck in his flesh instead, and then he cries out in pain. 

The scream cuts off when Harry’s fist connects with his face and sends him crashing back onto his table. The two other men at the table jump up, looking between their friend and Harry. 

Instead of joining the fight, they watch Harry fearfully and take a step back, and rightly so as Harry has started sparking. 

“G-get out of my bar!” the stuttered shout draws Draco’s attention to the bartender, who has levelled a shotgun at them. 

Draco recognises the firearm from Muggle television shows and remembers Harry having explained them as being sort of like a Muggle Avada Kedavra. 

Quick as a shot, Draco’s wand is in hand and he’s casting at the shotgun, finding inspiration from the Muggle cartoons and tying the gun up into a neat bow with all the wrenching and squealing sounds of twisting metal.

The bartender watches in shock and drops the firearm as if it’s burned him.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Harry curses.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Draco tries to be soothing but the words come out a little too frantic and his heart is beating wildly in his chest. “Let’s just get out, it’s okay.”

Three distinct popping sounds announce the arrival of three wizards Apparating into the bar around Draco and Harry. One is to Draco’s left, blocking the exit, the other two are behind him by Harry.

Harry and Draco move in tandem to stand back-to-back and cast shields at the same moment, barely getting them up before a flurry of hexes come at them.

There is shouting from the Muggles who run and duck for cover, and Draco thinks he hears one of the wizards yelling about it being Harry and Draco. 

The rebounding spells fly all over, breaking the mirror behind the bar, shelves of bottles of alcohol, tables, chairs, and light fixtures. Glass and wood and liquids are flying as hexes are cast, then countered or dodged.

Draco deflects one curse and sends a Stunner back at the wizard, identifiable as one of the Hunstmen from his robes. He doesn’t wait to see if the spell even lands before he whips toward the other wizard throwing spells at Harry, an Incarcerous on his lips ready to go, but then he falters when he sees the wizard. 

It’s Roberts. For just a second, Draco’s brain blanks out from this information. He’s not sure if what he’s seeing is true. Why would Roberts be here with Damian’s men, trying to bring in Harry and Draco? He’s one of the Dark wizards that Draco was working with. It doesn’t add up. 

Roberts looks at Draco at the same moment and their eyes meet amidst the turmoil around them, frozen for a second in time.

Reality comes crashing back into focus when sharp pain lances up Draco’s side and arm and he cries out. The shock of it sends him stumbling, but he regains his feet in time to get a new shield up before the next curse hits. 

Draco slashes his wand down and transfigures the floorboards to mud beneath the wizard’s feet. He slips and falls, and Draco has him bound up in an Incarcerous before he even hits the floor. 

Draco turns, wand raised and prepared to fend off Roberts, only to see him crumpled against the far wall, already knocked out. Draco wobbles dangerously as his head swivels to find the third attacker, barely catching a glimpse of him on the floor, bleeding, apparently unconscious, before Harry’s concerned face is blocking his view. 

“Draco? Draco!” Harry’s voice is tight with worry as he grabs Draco, steadying him with one hand on his good side, and the other on Draco’s chin, directing his gaze toward Harry.

“I’m fine,” Draco says through clenched teeth, hissing in pain. His skin feels like it’s being torn off his body, and when he looks down at his right side his arm hangs limply, and blood is blooming fast over his shirt, running down his side and down his leg to drip and pool on the floor. 

“I need to get you out of here,” Harry says and grabs onto Draco’s uninjured arm purposefully.

“Nonono!” Draco cries. “Don’t Apparate, don’t Apparate. I’ll be torn apart. Just—just get me to the bike, I’ll be alright, just help me.”

Harry’s brows furrow deeply and he hesitates, clearly not liking the idea, but then concedes when Draco closes his eyes tightly against the pain and draws in a sharp breath.

Harry takes Draco’s good arm, putting it around his neck and supporting him as they leave the bar and head to the bike. 

Draco bites down on the scream that wants to tear out of his throat when his injury keeps getting jostled on the way. He tries to breathe through it as best as he can, but it is excruciating. 

He can feel how his body is responding to it, starting to sweat while his muscles tense and shake. His stomach roils with nausea, and Draco worries he might need to stop and puke. 

By the time Harry gets him on the bike, Draco is dizzy but determined to stay conscious.

Harry gets behind him on the motorbike, kick starting it and holding on to Draco with one arm around his waist and using the other to steer. 

Draco leans back against Harry, feeling shaky and cold, dizzy and nauseous. Their surroundings go by in a blur as they tear down the road. Draco thinks what a shame it is that he’s getting blood on Harry’s nice leather seat. Then his world goes dark.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic descriptions of a wound.

Draco floats up into consciousness at a leisurely pace. The first thing he’s aware of is feeling cosy and warm. Then he becomes aware of a slight ache in his neck and he turns his face, trying to shift it into a more comfortable position. It takes a minute for him to become conscious of the fact that he’s conscious. 

Draco blinks open his eyes and takes in his surroundings, then wonders if he is actually awake after all. 

There are four walls and a roof surrounding him. He’s lying on a bed on top of the covers but he has no pillow under his head. Instead, his feet are propped up on pillows for some reason—two pillows, in fact. The only piece of clothing he’s wearing are his pants. There is a TV sitting on a table across from him, and nightstands on either side of the bed. 

Harry walks into the room, wiping his hands off with a small white towel. He glances over to Draco and then stops when he sees Draco looking back at him.

“You’re awake,” he states redundantly. “How are you feeling?”

Draco’s brows furrow and he takes his time answering. “I’m in the nude.”

Harry gives a laugh that sounds low and tired. “Nearly. What else?”

Draco swallows and assesses himself. “Muzzy.” He brings his left hand up to rub at his eyes, wanting to wipe away the groggy feeling. 

“Yeah, that’s probably the pain inhibitor I put on you. How’s the temperature?” Harry sits on the edge of the bed next to him and feels Draco’s cheek. 

Draco hums. “Good. Warm.”

Harry nods, seeming satisfied. Draco looks down at his right side, feeling oddly removed from and distantly horrified of the large gashes traveling from his shoulder to elbow on his right arm and then from his ribs to his hip. The skin is trying to peel itself off his body, exposing the veins and muscle beneath. 

The injuries are surrounded by a faintly glowing blue light. 

“Is that the counter-curse?” 

“Mm,” Harry hums with a small nod. “It’ll stop the wound from opening any further, but I can’t close it and heal it fully until the curse wears off on its own.”

“And how long does that take?” Draco asks with a frown. 

“Should be done by morning, noon at the latest. This one isn’t meant to last long, it’s supposed to flay all the skin from your body within a few hours.”

“Oh lovely,” Draco drawls, “just a few short hours of absolute torture as all of the skin is literally being peeled off your body.”

Harry gives an amused snort. “Too bad it won’t cut off that sarcastic arse as well.”

“Lies,” Draco declares. “Filthy lies. You love my arse.”

Harry smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at Draco. “Well I suppose everyone has to have at least one nice quality.”

Draco goes to smack Harry, but it takes more effort than he’s expecting, and his left hand sort of flops a bit too much to be effective. Draco thinks idly how kind it was of the wizard who cursed him to have hit his right side instead of his dominant side. 

Harry looks even more amused by Draco’s attempt to hit him, and he takes Draco’s hand and lays a kiss on his palm. 

Draco smiles at him, then remembers he wanted to ask, “You already knew the curse?”

He nods. “It’s a nasty one, Dark. Seen it a couple times before, though usually it’s Healers who do the counter-curse for it,” Harry comments. “But we can’t exactly go to St Mungo’s to get you fixed, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Draco echoes dryly. He glances back down to the open wounds. 

After a moment, Harry says softly. “It’s going to scar.”

“A few more to add to the collection,” Draco says dismissively. 

At that, Harry’s eyes drift down over Draco’s exposed torso and the Sectumsempra scars cutting harsh white lines across it. 

Goosebumps form over his abdomen and his nipples pebble when Harry reaches out and runs the tips of his finger’s over Draco’s scars, the touch light and barely-there.

Harry’s expression doesn’t look surprised or guilt-ridden the way Draco had imagined it might, instead he looks more resigned that anything. He looks like he’s not at all surprised by the damage he once wrought over Draco’s body—he’s not surprised that he almost killed Draco. 

Truth be told, Draco hasn’t given the scars much thought in years. They’ve been a part of him for so long, and that fight in a Hogwarts bathroom feels like a lifetime ago. But this situation brings an awareness to the fact that Harry is the one who gave them to him, and Harry has never really seen them before. It makes Draco feel more acutely aware of their presence on his skin than he has in a long, long time. 

He thinks Harry might say something—apologise, or bring up old memories. Draco doesn’t want him to, but he also finds that he can’t break the silence that’s fallen over them.

He wants to say something like, ‘Don’t apologise,’ or maybe, ‘I forgave you a long time ago.’ Except Draco never did forgive Potter, he just lived with the scars every single day for nearly thirty years until eventually the anger faded as a by-product of the passage of time. 

After a long moment, Harry’s hand stills and comes to rest flat on Draco’s stomach. He looks back up at Draco with tired, half-lidded eyes and asks, “How is the pain level?”

“Fine,” Draco answers. He is oddly aware of the fact that he should feel pain but isn’t, more of a distant ache.

“ ‘Kay. That wound’s gonna shift some, as the curse and counter-curse fight each other,” Harry says around a yawn. “Fuck, I wanted to stay up with you, but my brain is shutting down.”

“That’s alright, come on,” Draco says and pats the open space on the bed to his left. 

“Anyway, can’t bandage it because of that, sorry. Keep your feet up,” Harry seems to add as an afterthought as he’s getting ready for bed. “You went into shock. Cast a Blood Replenisher on you, but it’s not as good as the potion.”

Draco nods his understanding.

Harry stands up and moves around the bed. He turns off the lights, then takes off his shirt, which Draco notes has spots of blood staining it, but leaves on his jeans as he crawls under the bedclothes. He takes off his glasses, sets them on the nightstand, and then his eyes shut as soon as his head hits the pillow.

“What’s a man got to do to get a goodnight kiss around here?” Draco asks indignantly. “Nearly die? Oh, wait.”

Harry huffs out an amused chuckle, tiredly opens his eyes and then leans in to plant a short, chaste kiss on Draco’s lips. 

“I suppose that’ll do,” Draco says, watching as Harry gets comfortable. 

“Where are we?” Draco asks quickly, when it strikes him again that they are in a building and not their campsite.

“Hotel,” Harry mutters. “Had to stop, you nearly fell off the bike.”

“You put up the wards?”

“ ‘Course.”

“What about our things at the campsite?”

Harry rumbles a tired, irritable note, but he answers, “I’ll get them tomorrow.”

Draco sighs, but he accepts the answer and goes quiet. 

By the way Harry’s breathing evens out, Draco can tell that he is asleep not even a full minute later.

An electronic clock on the nightstand tells him that it’s half past nine. Still groggy from the healing spells, Draco thinks maybe he could fall asleep too if he tried. 

It’s weird to be lying on top of the covers, but Harry clearly cast a Warming Charm over him to keep his body temperature up, and Draco would rather not have a blanket dragging over his open wounds. 

He thinks about wishing he could turn and sleep on his right side like he usually does and can only comfort himself with the knowledge that at least the curse won’t last longer than a night. The concept of how close he came to death is hard to grasp, but this is an experience he is familiar with. 

Went to a bar, nearly got murdered, must be Tuesday, Draco thinks darkly and chuckles to himself. 

While his thoughts and mind meander, Draco ends up drifting into sleep without noticing. 

What feels like less than a minute later, Draco is woken by an abrupt and surprising pain. He jerks awake with an, “Ow!” 

What is most surprising is that it’s not his wound, but his nose that hurts. 

Draco reels back, looking around the dimly lit room. His eyes are drawn to Harry when he rolls over. His chest is moving rapidly up and down in shallow, laboured breaths. His arm rolls over and smacks Draco in the thigh, and then Draco starts to understand what hit him. 

“Arsehole, you hit me!” Draco smacks Harry’s arm in retaliation, but Harry doesn’t wake. 

Draco pauses and takes note of how Harry’s magic is filling the space around them a little more densely. He realises this is what Harry had been worried about—getting stuck in a nightmare and losing control of his reactions. 

However, Draco has spent enough time up close and personal with Harry’s wild magic now that he doesn’t currently feel that there’s a threat. He can tell Harry is having a reaction, but it’s at a level which the Magic Suppressing Ward should be able to handle.

“Harry? Harry,” Draco says, grabbing his arm and shaking lightly, but of course it doesn’t work to wake him up.

Harry thrashes again, jerking his arms and kicking out with his feet. 

“Harry, it’s alright, you’re dreaming, love, you’re dreaming,” Draco croons and reaches out to touch Harry’s face. Harry jerks away initially, but Draco follows the movement and taps his cheek repeatedly, but Harry still doesn’t wake up.

“Am I going to have to clock you again to wake you?” Draco asks, not liking the idea of leaving him in this state. 

And he knows Harry was worried about a magical outburst, but now Draco is more worried about waking up with a black eye than getting inadvertently hexed. 

Draco uses his good hand to tug the covers up over Harry’s arms and chest, and then struggles for a minute to tuck them under him, trying at the very least to keep those flailing limbs from hitting him again. 

He gingerly turns on his left side, wincing as the action pulls at his wounds and causes a sharp, throbbing pain, even through the spells. 

Draco puts his hand on Harry’s forehead, slides it down to his jaw and rubs at the beard there. 

“It’s alright, Harry,” he murmurs to him. “You’re stuck in a dream, none of it is real. Simple night terrors. You’re alright, we’re in a hotel room under heavy wards and we’re safe.”

He’s not sure if Harry can hear what he’s saying, but maybe, if nothing else, hearing a soothing voice could help to change the direction of Harry’s dream into something less terrifying. 

Draco starts to run his fingers through Harry’s hair and says, “Hush, love, everything is alright. You’re safe and sound in bed with me, which I think you should know I’m rather enjoying. I never could get comfortable in that little tent. Maybe I’m just getting too old to sleep on the ground like that.”

Harry’s thrashing has lessened, and being tucked tightly under the covers has helped to mitigate it further, but his expression is still shifting between anger and fear. 

Draco keeps carding his fingers through Harry’s hair and he is struck by an old memory.

“You know, there was a period when I was a child that I had trouble with nightmares and couldn’t sleep,” Draco recounts wistfully. “When I was seven, Vince frightened me with a story saying he’d seen a Lethifold in the forest on our property. He kept saying how it was going to glide in through my window one night and eat me.

“For a while, I had been so scared that I could never fall asleep unless my mother came in and sat on the bed and sang to me, until eventually I would drift off into sweet dreams…” Draco trails off as memories of her are accompanied by a deep ache in his chest, like it’s shrunk a couple sizes. 

Draco still remembers the smell of her perfume, the cadence of her voice, the way her eyes shone with love and pride when she looked at him, even after the war. He swallows down the emotions, the regret and the guilt and how badly he misses her. How badly he wishes he’d had her guidance through these many hard years. 

Draco shifts a little closer to Harry, curling in as much as he is willing to with Harry’s restless movements. His eyes shift around Harry’s face while he tries to recall the words to his favourite lullaby. 

“ _Oh, the Spring it is a-coming, and the trees are sweetly blooming,_ ” Draco begins singing softly as the words come slowly back to him, “ _And the wild mountain thyme blooms along the purple heather…_ ”

Draco recites what he remembers in low tones to Harry and hums the parts he doesn’t remember the words to. He keeps his fingers moving in and out of Harry’s hair, and soon enough the song seems to work its magic. 

Harry’s face slackens and he stops tossing about. He doesn’t wake up, but at least he seems to settle into a better dream. 

Draco keeps humming quietly until he falls back asleep.

◊ ◊ ◊

Draco wakes up in pain again, and this time it is from the curse. He sucks in a sharp breath, grits his teeth, and swallows down the cry bubbling up his throat.

In his sleep he had rolled over onto his right side and now he delicately tries to roll onto his back to relieve the pressure on his open wounds. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips together, though a small whine escapes. 

When he is on his back once again, Draco takes in a shuddering breath, opening and closing his fists as he works through the pain. 

The pain inhibitor must have worn off recently, but it looks like the counter-curse is still active. Whatever spell had stopped the bleeding isn’t though, and now Draco can feel blood trickling down his side and pooling on the bed from him disturbing the wound. 

Draco twists his wrist to activate his forearm holster, only to then realise that he’s not wearing it. He groans and lifts his head to look around and spots it sitting on the far side of the room on top of the table.

“Harry,” Draco says, voice coming out rough from sleep and the pain. When Harry doesn’t stir, Draco shakes his shoulder and repeats his name. It’s no good though, Harry is still trapped in his dream. 

Slowly and painfully, Draco gets out of bed and makes his way over to his things on the table. He clutches at his wand first, hand shaking as he quickly casts a Numbing Charm over the wounds. 

He takes a deep, relieved breath, pausing and letting his body relax some before he pulls himself together enough to stem the bleeding with another charm and then clean the blood off himself. 

Draco digs through his trouser pockets and gets out his leather pouch, then he grabs the remote from the telly and heads back to bed. He cleans bloody footprints from the carpet as he goes, then siphons his pool of blood from the bed and cleans the covers as best he can before climbing back on. 

Bright light is coming in through the thick, white and purple striped curtains on their single window, and Draco glances to the clock on the nightstand to see that it’s almost seven in the morning. 

He turns on the telly and tries to figure out the remote—its buttons are all different from how Harry’s remote was. Eventually he lands on a show about Muggles healing wild animals with their strange medical practices which seem utterly horrific to Draco but is also fascinating in a sort of grotesque way. 

Harry wakes up nearly an hour later, and there’s no slow, sleepy in-between state. His eyes open and then he sits up, looking around the room. His gaze land on Draco and he looks him over, gaze bright and alert, looking nothing like he was asleep mere seconds before. 

Draco’s hand is frozen midway to his mouth, holding a cracker he’d been about to eat. On his stomach is a box of crackers he’d taken from Harry’s cupboard and tucked away in his emergency kit after his jaunt around the Muggle town. 

“Good morning,” Draco says and then stuffs the cracker in his mouth. 

“ ‘Morning,” Harry says and gets off the bed. He stretches and groans quietly, then turns back to Draco. “How’s the pain?”

He crunches on his cracker a little faster and then swallows before answering, “Fine for now, the pain inhibitor wore off though. I’ve got a Numbing Charm on it.”

Harry picks up his wand and moves around the bed to get up close with Draco’s wound. He probes at the charms and counter-curse with his wand, casting a couple of silent spells and then pulls away. 

“The curse has almost worn off, should be able to close it soon,” he says.

Draco glances down at the wound and sees how the skin has pulled closer together and how less of the gory bits underneath are showing. “Thank Merlin,” he mutters. 

Harry moves away from him then, walking to the window and shifting the curtains just enough to get a look outside. “We should move as soon as that’s done, I don’t like how close we still are to the bar.” 

The heavy curtains swing closed after Harry drops them. He picks up his shirt and puts it on, only then glancing down and noticing the crusty bloodstains covering it. Harry frowns a little and then waves his wand across the stains to try and clean them. 

Draco tuts and waves him over, casting his own cleaning charms to get rid of the rusty spots left over from Harry’s attempts. When he is finished, Draco hooks a finger in Harry’s collar and reels him down into a kiss. 

It takes Harry a moment to relax into the kiss as he seems on edge by the situation, but Draco coaxes him in to kissing a little deeper and a little longer. 

He gets a hand in Harry’s hair and Harry has to put a hand on the headboard to support his position of leaning over Draco. He rests the other hand on the side of Draco’s neck and lets Draco set the pace and the intensity of the kiss. 

After a minute, Draco breaks off and looks up at Harry. “We’re alright, Harry. Relax,” he says and runs a hand over Harry’s beard, enjoying the feel of the coarse yet smooth hair under his palm, and the way it softens Harry’s eyes when he does it. 

“You keep saying that,” Harry says in a light tone.

“Because we are.”

Harry hums thoughtfully, thumb stroking behind Draco’s ear. He leans down to give Draco one more short kiss. 

“Thank you, by the way,” Harry says and pulls back, pushing off the headboard as he straightens. 

“For what?”

“For singing to me,” Harry says, like it should be obvious.

Draco’s cheeks warm. “You heard me?”

Harry nods and shrugs. “Heard you talking to me too. It helped, so thanks.”

“Of course. I…” Draco pauses, then puts on a playfully indignant air. “Well, you hit me in the face, so of course I had to do _something._ ” 

“Sorry,” Harry says with a wince.

“Don’t be daft, I was only joking,” Draco says lightly. “I didn’t think you’d actually hear me. Well, I thought you’d hear my voice, maybe find it soothing, but I didn’t think you’d _hear_ me.” 

“Yeah, I...it’s like an extended form sleep paralysis,” Harry explains. “Sometimes the dream will distort things I hear so they don’t make sense, but I am aware of things outside the dream. I’m asleep but I know I’m sleeping, and my body can’t fully immerse itself in the dream.” 

Draco gazes curiously at Harry. “That sounds horrifying. How do you function?”

Harry shrugs and smiles wryly. “Necessity?” 

Draco shakes his head. Harry looks at Draco a moment longer, then turns and starts moving around the room. He looks out the window again, checks the locks on the door, and puts a new Warming Charm over Draco. 

“Harry, will you please sit down? You’re giving me anxiety.” 

Harry frowns, but then relents and sits next to Draco on the bed. The telly is still on and playing some morning show. 

“They’re going to come looking for us. They’re probably already looking for us,” Harry says.

“And they’ll think we’re in Dublin, by now.”

Harry shakes his head and his expression tightens. “They’ll know you’ve been hurt. The sooner we get away from here, the better.” 

“And then what?” Draco asks.

Harry blinks at him, like he’s surprised by the question. “We’ll get our things at the campsite and move on to a new location.”

“A new hotel?” 

Harry’s brow scrunches up. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Why not?” Draco asks. “We’re in one now and we’re fine.”

Harry grimaces. “It was—I nearly lost control again just getting you here.”

“Harry, you’ll be fine. You’ve got it under control now.”

“Not at the bar, I didn’t,” Harry points out.

“That was a fluke,” Draco says dismissively. 

“And how many more flukes am I going to have?” Harry asks, watching Draco intensely. “They know we’re hiding among Muggles, clearly they’re watching for any breaches of the Statute of Secrecy.” 

Draco sighs in frustration. “Harry, I’m sick of sleeping in a tent. I’m sick of not having a proper shower. How long are we going to live like that?” he asks. “We’ll be careful. We’ll stay in our room and put up your wards. It’ll be fine.”

Draco can see the wheels spinning in Harry’s mind. He can tell Harry doesn’t like the idea and wants to argue further. Draco reaches out and runs his fingers down Harry’s arm. 

“We’ll be careful,” he repeats. “And if any of Damian’s men show up again, we’ll blow their—”

Draco cuts off as memories of the fight come back to him. He had barely thought about it since waking up, seeing as he was cursed and that seemed a more pressing matter. 

“Harry,” Draco says urgently, pulse speeding in his neck and eyes roving around the room as his minds connects the dots and spins from the revelation.

“What?” Harry asks, sitting up a little straighter, eyes sharp and brow furrowed in concern. His gaze jumps from Draco to dart around the room. 

“One of the wizards who attacked us,” Draco begins slowly, almost not believing it himself, “one of them was Roberts.”

“Roberts?” 

“The wizard I was—” Draco cuts off and swallows down the word ‘fucking’. “—working under in my investigation.”

Harry’s brows draw down even further in confusion. “But the other ones—”

“Were Damian’s men, yes,” Draco confirms impatiently. “They were wearing the Huntsmen robes.”

Draco sees exactly the moment Harry gets it, when his eyes light up with understanding. “So they’re working for Damian—the Dark wizards you were investigating.”

Draco nods and adds softly, “The Magnate...the men _you_ were also investigating.” 

Harry’s gaze jumps back to meet Draco’s. Since Harry showed him his memories and explained his history, Draco hasn’t explicitly said whether he believed Harry or not. But he does believe Harry, of course he does. 

“I don’t see what other explanation there would be,” Draco says. “This makes the most sense.”

Harry nods his agreement slowly. 

“I knew that arsehole was a lying hypocrite,” Draco spits, wishing he could stand and pace the room angrily without hurting himself. “I _knew_ there was something weird about all this. I know I make an easy scapegoat, but it just seemed strange how hard Damian was trying to get me. How hard he was trying to specifically capture—or, let’s be honest, kill— _me._

“And no wonder!” Draco rages and throws his hands up angrily. “I’m probably the only person who could connect him to a Dark Arts organisation. Actually, perhaps he thinks Ron could know as well? That would explain his sudden persecution.”

“Draco,” Harry says, halting his rant. “When your cover was blown, didn’t you say that raid was done by Damian’s men? It wasn’t an Auror raid?” 

Draco’s mouth tips open at yet another revelation. “Fuck me,” he breathes, stunned and staring at Harry. “They knew there was a mole. They were trying to smoke me out. And it worked.”

Harry nods. Draco turns his head to look unseeingly at the television in front of him. 

He takes a moment to let it all sink it, and then says, “We need to call Hermione.”

Harry gets the phone from the bedside table next to him, dials the number and then sets the phone between them on the bed. It only rings twice before Hermione answers. 

“Hello?” Draco can hear her voice louder and clearer than he could from the payphone at the bar, despite it being farther from him. 

“Hermione, can you talk?” Draco asks urgently. 

“Yes, what’s going on?”

“That Dark Arts organisation I was investigating? The Trutina? They work for Damian.” 

There is a pause before Hermione asks dubiously, “Are you sure?”

Draco explains what he knows and their theory on the raid and why they are coming after Ron and Draco. 

Hermione is silent afterward as she takes it all in.

“Gods…” they hear her mutter. “I—it makes sense. It’s twisted, but it makes sense.” 

Harry and Draco hum their agreement, and then there is another moment of silence over the line.

“Draco, when the estate was raided, how many of you were there?” she asks. 

“Eleven, I believe,” Draco says. “Why?”

“They only arrested two,” Hermione explains, “and whenever I went to the cells to visit Ron, they didn’t look at all bothered to be there. I didn’t speak to them of course, but they...they had this air like they were on holiday.” 

Draco shakes his head in frustration. “They had it all planned out who they would bring in. Give Damian and his Dogs a little good press, then they’ll probably get off with a slap on the wrist.” 

“And they made sure Ron heard about the raid so if there was an undercover Auror he would attempt to extract them, or do something that would give them away,” Hermione says as she thinks through it. “I doubt they were expecting either of you to get away. They could arrest you both and then...what? Get one of his own men in the Head Auror position?”

“Yeah,” Draco says, “or kill us then and there.” 

Hermione is silent a moment as she mulls it over. 

“Okay, that’s—this is a lot to take in. If it’s true...I’ll do some digging, see if I can’t find anything solid to tie them together.” 

“Alright, be careful,” Draco says, and Hermione echoes the sentiment and hangs up.

Draco sighs, then he feels Harry’s hand squeezing his. Draco sends him a small smile, which Harry returns. 

Harry leans over and gives Draco a short kiss. “I’m going to take a shower, okay?”

Draco nods, and Harry gets up and goes into the bathroom. He returns a short while later redressed with damp hair and his beard trimmed into a tidier state. 

Harry looks over Draco’s wound, determines that it shouldn’t be much longer before they can heal it and move on. 

He climbs back on the bed with Draco, takes his hand and interlaces their fingers. They watch telly while they wait and munch on Draco’s crackers as breakfast.

◊ ◊ ◊

Draco can feel Harry’s worry radiating off him as they make their way to a new hotel entrance, so he takes Harry’s hand and squeezes gently. Harry shoots him a small, grateful smile.

The sign for the hotel reads, ‘Premier Inn.’ It’s on the other end of the country and further North than they had been. 

Harry doesn’t seem excited by the prospect of being around so many Muggles in the middle of a city, small as it may be, but Draco thinks it will be good for him to see that he is capable of maintaining control anywhere. That, and Draco would give anything for running water. 

They drove the whole way here over Muggle roads, and Harry had taken a long, winding path through one of the National Forests. He tried to tempt Draco into staying when they had stopped to eat lunch. Draco wasn’t convinced. 

Now they are both tired from the long journey. Driving on the road is not nearly as smooth of a ride as flying is, and Draco is sore from sitting in the same position for so long. Harry had insisted on it as he was concerned that they would be an obvious and easy target in the air to anyone looking for them. 

As Harry gets them checked in, Draco presses close to his side and keeps his hold on Harry’s left hand. Despite his initial concerns, Harry is doing well with keeping his magic under control.

Draco leans in and murmurs into Harry’s ear how well he is doing, how calm and steady his magic feels. He's mildly surprised to see the reaction it causes in Harry, the way he gets goosebumps and flushes. 

Draco blinks, but takes note of it. He wonders if Harry did the same thing all those times in the woods when Draco had praised his progress. At the time, Draco hadn’t known Harry felt an attraction to him and he hadn’t been looking for signs of it. 

By the time they get into their room, it’s evening. They had spent the entire day first waiting out Draco’s curse, retrieving their things from the campsite, then driving all through the Scottish countryside and having to stop for both lunch and dinner before deciding on a place to stay. 

Harry’s first move is to get their wards up, while Draco’s is to kick off his shoes and flop down onto the bed. 

Draco hums into the covers in pleasure. He mashes his face into a pillow and moans over how good the bed feels, and how it was nice to sleep in a bed the night before, but with his cursed wounds he hadn’t been able to enjoy it properly. 

“Are you going to make sure we enjoy this one properly, then?” he hears Harry ask suggestively, and Draco turns his head to get a look at him. 

Harry has removed his jacket and he is watching Draco with a distinctly hungry look in his eyes. Draco has to suppress a shiver from it, then he licks his lips and grins wickedly. 

Since they started this thing, there has never been a good night to do more than a little necking. But now seems like the perfect time. They have a shower, they have a bed, neither of them are hurt, and Harry doesn’t look like he is about to pass out. 

Oh, yes. Tonight is the night. Tonight they are going to shag. Draco practically feels like a monk from how long it’s been. 

Draco rolls onto his back and gives Harry a slow, deliberate once-over. “We’re going to enjoy it to the fullest extent,” Draco says with a sly smile. “So long as you don’t fall asleep on me in the middle of it.”

Harry huffs out an amused laugh. “No, we’ve got plenty of time.” He puts a hand and a knee on the mattress so he can lean over the bed and kiss Draco. 

Draco runs a hand up his jaw and kisses him back, while Harry’s free hand smooths up Draco’s chest, brushes over his neck, then comes back down to start unbuttoning Draco’s shirt. 

Once the top few buttons are open, Harry pushes the collar aside and moves his mouth away from Draco’s to kiss down his jaw to his neck. 

Draco gives a satisfied hum when Harry sucks on the sensitive skin and his beard brushes against Draco’s collarbone. 

For a moment Draco loses himself in the sensation, sighing in pleasure and contentment and running his hand over Harry’s hair. His fingers find the elastic tying Harry’s hair back in a bun and pull at it. As he slides the elastic out, Harry’s hair falls down over his shoulders like a curtain, tickling the side of Draco’s neck that isn’t being laved at. 

Harry pauses briefly in his ministrations to crawl onto the bed over Draco. He presses a few wet, heated kisses to Draco’s mouth before moving back down to lavish even more attention on his neck. 

Draco moans and grips at Harry’s hair and shoulder, one foot sliding up the bed. He uses the leverage from it to rock his hips up against Harry’s and he can feel the bulge in his jeans. 

Draco moves his hands to Harry’s waist and pulls at it until Harry shifts off his knees and lays his body over Draco’s. Draco moans his satisfaction with the feel of Harry’s body pressing down onto his. He has always loved that heavy feeling of a solid body pressing down on him.

He rolls his hips and pulls at Harry’s, guiding them into a rhythm of rocking against each other. The fabric and zips and buttons between them keep the experience from being purely pleasurable.

“Harry,” Draco moans. 

Harry hums a questioning note against his skin. When Draco pushes at Harry’s hips to end the frotting, Harry pulls back to look down at Draco. His pupils are blown and his lips are plump and red, and Draco can’t help but tug him into a hungry kiss. 

After a minute, Draco breaks the kiss and rests his cheek against Harry’s. He’s panting and trying to gather his thoughts when he gives in to the urge to lick and nip at Harry’s earlobe, and he gets a shiver from Harry in response. 

He can feel how Harry’s breathing has become heavier too, and he enjoys the feel of Harry’s chest expanding and contracting rapidly against his own. 

“Let me take a quick shower,” Draco murmurs and Harry groans in protest. “It’ll be quick, promise. You practically kicked me out the door this morning as soon as I was healed, never gave me a chance to shower before we left.” 

Harry groans out another frustrated note, but then he rolls to the side off Draco. He watches as Draco gets up and hurries into the bathroom. 

Draco strips off his clothes and hops into the shower. He can’t help himself when he reaches down, gets a hand on his cock and gives it one stroke and then another. He gives a low moan and then grips the base of it for a second, releasing a ragged breath and telling himself to wait. 

Draco gives his hair a rushed, cursory wash, then spends more time lathering soap over his whole body. He pays special attention to his nethers, then slips a soapy finger into himself. He stretches and cleans himself thoroughly. 

Will Harry want to top or bottom tonight? Draco’s not sure, but he wants to have all his bases covered. Then the thought occurs to Draco that maybe Harry has never been with another man before. In which case, Harry might feel more comfortable topping first. 

Draco remembers his first time and how topping had felt like a safer choice, like it allowed him to have more control of the whole affair. Even still today Draco prefers to top if he’s with a man he doesn’t know or trust well enough. 

But now he’s with Harry, who he knows and trusts. He imagines them having sex in every which way possible and he wants all of it, but tonight the thought of Harry fucking him, of the weight of his body pushing him down into the mattress, of the stretch of his cock and the sensation of it rubbing against his prostate…

Draco has to grab at the base of his cock and squeeze. It’s hard and leaking and desperate for release. 

He rinses quickly, steps out of the shower and towels himself off. He considers redressing, then decides there’s no point in that and walks out of the bathroom with the towel around his waist. 

Harry is right where Draco left him—lying on the bed fully clothed except for his socks and shoes. His jeans aren’t nearly as tented as they were when Draco left to shower, and Draco wants to rectify that situation. 

Harry looks over at Draco with a small smile, warm and relaxed but distinctly desirous. His eyes land on Draco’s crotch where his erection is all too obvious, but Harry’s gaze only grows hungrier at the sight of it. 

Harry’s gaze moves up to meet Draco’s and he gives him a sultry look and a come hither gesture.

Draco throws his head back and laughs. “Oh really?” he asks, quirking at eyebrow up. “I’m not so sure you understand this seduction thing. If you’re going to do that, firstly you need to be lounging across this bed naked, and secondly you need to be holding a red rose between your teeth. Oh, and candles. Lots of candles.”

Harry huffs out a laugh and folds his hands behind his head, relaxing further into the bed. “Alright, you can stay over there then,” he says in feigned disinterest. “But that towel is going to fall as soon as your dick stops holding it up.”

Draco gasps and snatches a pillow from the bed and throws it at Harry. Harry ducks and smacks it away with a laugh. He swings up onto his knees so he can reach out, grab Draco by the waist and pull him down onto the bed. 

Draco makes a surprised noise, turning and landing on his back with an, “Oomph.” Harry, for his part, is grinning down at Draco. 

“Oh yes, there’s the Neanderthal I remember,” Draco drawls. 

Harry’s grin turns mischievous right before he ducks down and blows a raspberry on Draco’s stomach. 

It immediately has Draco screeching out a surprised laugh, legs kicking and trying to twist his body away from the ticklish sensation. 

Harry hangs on like he’s riding a bucking horse and blows another raspberry. 

Draco fights back playfully, squirming and laughing and tugging at Harry’s hair. 

When Harry pulls back, Draco is breathless and flushed red. Harry’s glasses are sitting crooked on his nose, his hair is a mess and his eyes are shining with mirth. 

Draco had always thought that he was the more playful one, but Harry has come alive with youthful energy over the past week, and Draco finds it endearingly attractive. He’s never had so much easy fun with a partner before. 

“How’s that for seduction?” Harry asks. “Is your fiery cavern adequately passion-moistened and ready to enfold the engorged staff of my masculinity into its depths?”

Draco’s eyes widen in shock, and then he bursts into a peal of raucous laughter, turning on his side and clutching at his stomach. 

Right as Draco is taking deep breaths and starting to wind down, Harry leans over him, wiggles his eyebrows and says in a low voice, “Are you ready for your pulsing portal to overflow with my love potion?”And it immediately sets Draco off again. 

Harry is laughing too, and Draco reaches out to shove Harry back onto the bed. He goes with it and flops onto his back next to Draco.

“So? What do you say?” Harry asks with a shit-eating grin. 

Draco pushes himself onto an elbow and tries to level a deadpan look at Harry between chuckles. “After that? Absolutely not. This pulsing portal is officially closed for the night. Thank you, and goodbye.” 

Harry just chuckles. 

“Just what sort of books have you been reading, exactly?” Draco asks him pointedly.

Harry’s lips pull up in an amused smile. “The trashy kind.”

“Apparently.” Draco tuts. “I’ll kindly thank you to not involve me in any ‘engorged staffs’ erupting in my ‘fiery cavern’,” Draco says, then adds, “and why is it fiery? That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

Harry laughs, low and long, and it fills Draco’s chest with warmth to hear it and to see how it opens up his expression. 

“Actually, that wasn’t the plan,” Harry says in a light, conversational tone. 

Draco rolls on his side and props his head up on his hand, tugging at his loosening towel to make sure it doesn’t come undone. “Oh, really?”

“Mhmm,” Harry hums with a slow nod, looking up at the ceiling. Draco rolls his hand in the air, prompting him to go on. “I was thinking I’d like to suck you off a bit, and then massage your prostate. Maybe edge you, if you were up for it.” 

Draco takes in a sharp breath, his stomach instantly alight and fluttering with interest. He licks his bottom lip.

Harry eyes him, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly when he sees Draco’s response, then he sighs heavily. “But I suppose if the gate to your luscious garden of forbidden fruit is closed…” 

“No!” Draco curses himself for the frantic response and tells himself to calm down. “No, the gate is wide open. So long as you never call it that again.”

“Deal.” Harry laughs and then rolls onto his side, leaning in and taking Draco’s lips in a kiss. Draco scrubs a hand up his chin as he deepens it. 

One of Harry’s hands lands on Draco’s side and smooths down the bared skin slowly, pausing on his waist, then pushing on it and getting Draco to roll onto his back. 

It breaks the kiss, and Draco looks up at Harry, watching Harry’s eyes as they follow his own hand as it roves over Draco’s abdomen. The light caress of his fingertips sends the muscles of his stomach squirming, and he fights down the urge to laugh and pull away. 

Harry glances up at Draco for confirmation when his hand lands on the towel, then he tugs at it. Draco feels even more on display when the towel is open. His cock is only half-hard, having softened some since getting out of the shower. 

But the thought of what Harry wants to do to him has it steadily filling once more. Draco loves sex, he loves the stimulation and the pleasure and the release that it brings. He likes fucking and being fucked, but more than anything he loves the deeper, more intense pleasure he gets from prostate stimulation. 

Getting his dick wet feels great, but the pleasure that comes from his prostate? That’s on a whole different level. Draco has always wanted to try prostate massage—he’s always wanted to see if he could come from nothing else and experience only that nearly indescribable, overwhelming feeling of deep, whole-body pleasure. 

From the way Harry is looking at him, Draco feels as if Harry already knows this somehow, as if he’d reached into his mind and perused through his deepest desires. 

Harry’s hand hasn’t touched Draco’s cock yet, instead it’s been dancing around it, stroking down a thigh and skimming around his crotch. 

Harry leans down and takes Draco’s earlobe in his mouth, sucking and tonguing at it and making Draco hum and tilt his head to allow him better access. 

Draco slides a hand over Harry’s shoulder and tugs at it, digging his blunt nails in to urge Harry on, but Harry seems determined to take his time. He moves to Draco’s neck, kissing and biting and sucking at the skin there, then kisses down along his collarbone. 

Draco hums and moans and grips at Harry’s hair as Harry travels through all his erogenous zones. When Harry gets to his nipple he laves at it, then sucks it into his mouth and swirls his tongue over it. 

For a moment Draco gets quieter, not finding the area nearly as interesting, but then he remembers that he should respond and moans out a, “Don’t stop.”

Harry stops. 

His mouth pops off the nipple as he looks up at Draco. Draco stills awkwardly. 

“Don’t do that,” Harry murmurs, and Draco blinks at him in confusion. “I don’t want you to fake anything with me. I just want to hear you—your authentic reactions.” 

Draco’s stomach twists with embarrassment, but he nods. 

That’s certainly new for Draco. He’s not used to anyone noticing or caring if he fakes a few moans. Trust Harry to surprise Draco at every turn. 

Harry moves his hand up Draco’s chest and rubs his thumb over the other nipple, flicking it and watching Draco curiously. 

“Not a fan of nipple play?” Harry asks him. 

Draco shrugs. “I don’t mind it, but it’s never been particularly interesting for me. They’re just not very sensitive.”

Harry nods and moves on. He kisses across Draco’s abdomen, lingering a little longer there after a well-placed nip has Draco gasping. His fingertips brush over Draco’s thighs, literally beating around the bush. 

Meanwhile, Harry’s mouth moves lower and lower until he’s sucking a mark into the sensitive space between Draco’s hip and groin. 

Draco has his hands buried in Harry’s hair, whining quietly and trying to lead Harry’s mouth to his cock. 

“Harry,” Draco breathes impatiently, rocking his hips up to try and encourage Harry to move his mouth. Instead, Harry pulls away. 

Draco watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Harry gets up on his knees and trails his gaze over Draco’s body. There is a noticeable bulge in Harry’s trousers, though Draco has yet to get a hand on him. Apparently, Harry has a thing for lavishing attention over Draco’s body. 

Well, seeing how Draco has a thing for having attention lavished on him, he can only see this as a win-win situation for them. If his theory is correct, Draco can imagine all the ways he could exploit it to their mutual benefit. 

“Budge up,” Harry tells him then, once he’s finished admiring Draco. 

Draco pushes up on his elbows and scoots back on the bed until he’s centred and got his head on one of the pillows. Harry follows him up the bed, pushes Draco’s knees open a little wider and kneels between them. 

“Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?” Draco asks, sitting up and getting a hand around Harry’s neck so he can pull him into a kiss. 

Harry opens to Draco easily, sucking his tongue in and then biting at his lip. He pulls far enough away to look at Draco and says in an unconcerned tone, “Let me take care of you first.”

“Are you sure?” Draco purrs and cups Harry’s erection in his palm, pressing against it and rubbing his hand over it. 

Harry’s eyes flutter closed briefly and he gives a quiet moan, rocking himself into Draco’s hand. 

Harry opens his eyes and nods. “Yeah, I’d rather to get my hands on you first. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Draco says with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. If his partner wants to put Draco’s pleasure before their own, Draco is only too happy to oblige. He lies back on the mattress when Harry presses a hand against his chest, wiggling his hips a little to get more comfortably situated. 

Harry pulls his wand from his back pocket to conjure a vial of lube. He warms some on his hand and then grips Draco’s cock and strokes it slowly. Draco hums his appreciation and tries to keep still as Harry continues his exploration of Draco’s body.

Harry strokes him with varying speeds and techniques, seemingly testing out what Draco responds best to, and Draco doesn’t even have to try to keep all his reactions authentic. 

When Harry discovers a stroke Draco particularly likes, he keeps doing it for a while, working him up and up and then stops and tries something new before Draco can get too close to orgasm. 

At the end of it, Harry is holding the head of Draco’s prick in one hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth again and again over the sensitive area under the head, while his other hand is cupping Draco’s balls and kneading them gently as two fingers rub repeatedly against his perineum. 

Draco is loudly and unabashedly moaning out his pleasure. His cock is dripping precome down Harry’s fingers, easing the motion of them over his cock.

It’s barely been fifteen minutes and Harry has already reduced Draco to a sweating, trembling mess. Clearly this is not Harry’s first time with another man. 

“So you’re alright with it, then? What I want to do?” Harry asks, voice low and heated.

“Yes! Yes, Merlin, please. I—hnnng—” Draco cuts off briefly with a moan as Harry gives his balls a firm squeeze. “I want...I—fuck—I’m already close, I don’t know if I can hold it if you want to edge me, but I want to try.”

Draco has only been edged once before, and while it tested his patience like nothing else, the resulting orgasm was incredibly intense and well worth the trouble. Pair that with a prostate massage and Harry’s talented fingers, and Draco knows it will be brilliant. 

“Almost there?” Harry asks.

“Yes,” Draco breathes, “yes, Harry, please.” Though he’s not sure whether he’s pleading for Harry to stop or keep going. 

Harry doesn’t stop. He continues stroking under Draco’s glans and rolling his testicles in the other hand. 

The pressure of orgasm builds and builds in his groin, the sensation focused mainly in his cock as Harry works him expertly. 

Draco grips at the sheets and moans as the pleasure builds and builds, and he’s so close, he’s almost there, his eyes roll back and—

Harry’s grip tightens and closes around the top of his scrotum while tugging down gently, effectively halting Draco from climaxing. 

Draco cries out in frustration. He brings his hands up to cover his face, then slides them back into his hair and tugs on it. 

Harry’s completely stopped stimulating Draco’s cockhead, and instead that hand is now pressing down on Draco’s stomach, putting a stop to the desperate thrusting of his hips to chase his retreating orgasm. 

Harry looks happy as a fucking clam, his eyes dark with pleasure and desire behind his glasses. His lips are moving but Draco hasn’t been listening to him, too caught up in the death of his orgasm. 

“Harry,” Draco pleads, his voice already sounding wrecked. 

“You did perfect, Draco,” Harry’s soft words finally process in his mind. “You’re beautiful, you’re doing so well.”

Draco tilts his head back and whines, pressing his fists to his eyes. Gods, he just wants to come, but _of course_ Harry would somehow know to appeal to Draco’s deep-seated need for validation. Hearing the praise eases some of the frustration of his stolen orgasm. 

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Harry continues. “Do you think you can hold off for me one more time?”

Draco groans. He’s still shaking from the first denial, but that pressing need to come _right now_ has faded. Harry’s not touching him anywhere anymore and without stimulation, his level of pleasure has receded to a low thrum.

“If you can handle it one more time I’ll give you my mouth and a prostate massage,” Harry negotiates. “If you don’t think you can handle it, then you can come from the blow job.”

Draco sighs and nods. It’s not a hard decision, especially when Harry words it in a way that turns it into a challenge. But apart from that, Draco really wants Harry to milk his prostate. He’d gotten some stimulation to it when Harry put pressure on it through his perineum, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

So he says, “Give me both. I can handle it.”

Draco might be impatient, but more than that he is greedy. He wants everything Harry is offering him right now. In the choice of a quicker orgasm with less pleasure, or a prolonged orgasm with more pleasure, Draco will always choose more. 

“Perfect,” Harry purrs, voice low and pleased. “Charm or condom?”

“Charm,” Draco answers readily, moving his hands off his eyes to look down at Harry. “I prefer charms.”

Harry nods, pulls his wand from his back pocket, and casts the Protection Charm over Draco. 

Draco can’t help the instinctual twist in his gut at seeing Harry cast anything at his genitals, but Harry seems entirely at ease and the charm wraps around his cock with the same faint tingle it always does. 

Draco mentally prepares himself for another round of exquisite torture as Harry leans down and laps at the tip of Draco’s cock, which is already wet with lube and precome. 

Harry seems to find just as much satisfaction in discovering all the best ways to suck and lick and tease at Draco’s cock and balls to build his pleasure back up. 

Almost every time Draco looks down, Harry’s gaze is already on him, ardently watching him as he makes him come undone. 

Harry seems just as confident using his mouth on Draco as he did his hands, and he goes from licking Draco’s cock, to sucking at it with varying pressures, swirling his tongue against the sensitive underside, to even deep throating him for a bit. 

Slowly but surely, Harry works Draco back into a desperate, trembling mess. Draco is so close, he’s _so close,_ when Harry’s tight grip keeps him from coming a second time. 

Draco whines and bucks up against Harry, wanting, wanting, wanting. But Harry presses his hips firmly back down into the mattress, all while murmuring sweet reassurances of how incredible Draco is and how gorgeous he looks like this and promises that next time he can come and how good it will be. 

“Get a fucking move on then, Potter,” Draco snarls impatiently. His muscles are tense and shaking, still reaching for an orgasm that’s steadily fading. The longer Harry goes without touching him, the more the build up of pressure dissipates, no matter how hard Draco tries to cling to it. 

“Relax,” Harry tells him as he pours lube over his fingers.

“Easy for you to say,” Draco huffs. “You’re not the one whose orgasm has been forcibly stopped. _Twice._ And you’re still fully clothed!”

Harry’s smile is fond and amused, and Draco wants to kick him in the teeth for it. 

“Hurry _up,_ ” Draco growls. “I already prepped myself in the shower.”

Harry pauses, and he looks up at Draco and wets his lips, apparently liking the image that thought provides. Draco smirks, then Harry blinks and looks away. 

“It’ll be better slow. Let me work you up again nice and easy,” Harry says. “The longer you hold off, the better it’ll feel.”

Draco sighs and throws an arm over his eyes. He knows Harry is right, but, gods, he just wants to come. But this is what Draco wants. He reminds himself that he wants the mind-blowing orgasm this will lead to.

“Alright,” Draco agrees.

He feels Harry’s hand grab underneath his thigh to push his leg back. Draco obligingly pulls the other open further as well. 

He takes his arm off his eyes so he can watch as Harry presses a slick finger to his hole. The lube has been warmed on Harry’s fingers and isn’t as startling a sensation as it usually is when Harry slathers the rim with it. 

One finger slides in easily from Draco’s earlier preparation, and Draco releases a deep breath and relaxes into the sensation. 

His cock is hard and red, resting against his stomach and leaking precome. Harry is ignoring it completely now in favour of pushing more lube inside him, and Draco has to hold onto his pillow to keep himself from reaching down and tugging at his cock. 

Harry pushes a second finger in, and Draco moans softly at the feeling of his rim being stretched. Harry takes his sweet time fingering Draco, only brushing against his prostate lightly. 

Draco rocks his hips down impatiently, trying to fuck himself on Harry’s fingers, but Harry pulls out and puts a stop to that with a hand on Draco’s stomach. He leans just enough of his weight into it to pin Draco to the mattress. 

Harry smirks at him while Draco groans in frustration, but he doesn’t leave Draco hanging for long. He slides his fingers back in and curls them, finding Draco’s prostate with ease and pressing his fingertips firmly to it. 

“Gods, yes,” Draco moans in relief at the feeling. 

Finally Harry begins to massage Draco’s prostate in earnest. He starts slow, rubbing it with regular, even pressure. Every few minutes he will deviate it, changing the pressure or the speed or the motion, but now that he’s started he doesn’t stop. 

The deep, intense pleasure it sparks in Draco radiates through him from the inside out. It’s a much slower build, and the non-localised sensation puts him in a place where the pleasure is spread through his whole body. It makes Draco feel like he is miles from orgasm while also being just a hair’s breadth away. 

Harry slides his hand under Draco’s cock and presses it flat to his pelvis.

“Harry,” Draco whines at the way Harry’s hand brushed his cock but is otherwise ignoring it. 

Draco looks down the length of his body to find Harry already watching him avidly, like he did while blowing Draco, right before pressing down with his left hand and firmly pushing his fingertips up into Draco’s prostate with his right. 

Draco’s mouth drops open on a choked out moan, and his head falls back on the pillow. 

Harry keeps the pressure on from both sides of his prostate, rubbing at it in concentric motions from the inside. He’s not thrusting his fingers in and out of Draco at all, rather he’s keeping them inside Draco while curling and rocking them on and away from his prostate. 

The action spends sparks of pleasure skittering over his body outward from his pelvis, up through his penis, across his thighs, all the way down to his toes, through his gut and up his back, following his spine up the back of his neck and tingling across his scalp. 

It makes Draco feel warm and tingly all over, juxtaposed by the chill he feels over his skin from being laid across the bed completely nude and covered in sweat. His heart is racing and his pale skin is flushed from his ears down to his chest. 

Harry’s concentrated ministrations feel like such sweet torture, filling him with a heady, full-body pleasure that’s _so much_ but never quite enough. 

He’s so close. He’s _so close,_ but he doesn’t know if he will ever get that final push that he needs to find release, or if Harry is going to keep him here, suspended on the precipice, forever. 

“Harry, Harry,” Draco pants.

He looks down to find those green eyes locked on him, watching him come apart at the seams like it’s everything. Harry’s pupils are blown wide, his cheeks are ruddy with the rush of blood to them, and his lips are plump and bee-stung, wet from biting at them. 

“Please,” Draco begs, “I don’t know if I can do it. _Please_ I need to come.” 

“You can,” Harry says, voice sounding as wrecked as Draco feels. “I know you can. You’re almost there, baby.” 

Draco groans and Harry presses harder down on him when he tries to rut his hips up, desperate for anything to rub his cock against and help him orgasm. 

His hair is a mess from running his fingers through it and tugging on it in his effort to keep himself from reaching down and grabbing his cock. 

It seems like it lasts an age, and age of Draco trembling and sweating and cursing, until one particularly firm stroke over his prostate pushes him far enough. 

His body tenses, his back arches, his head tips back and his mouth drops open in anticipation, and then without anything stopping it this time, Draco finally comes. 

His vision whites out and he cries out at the first intense rush and release. Waves of deep, head-to-toe pleasure barrel through him hard and fast at first. His hips jerk and his cock stripes his torso with come. Every part of him feels like it’s throbbing and pulsing and thrumming with pleasure. 

Draco has absolutely no control over it. It’s an ocean of pleasure and he feels like he’s drowning it in and might not ever surface. He shudders and whimpers and ruts as the pleasure rolls and rolls and rolls through him seemingly endlessly. 

It feels like an eon before the waves wracking his body slow and lessen in intensity. His hips are still giving the occasional twitch when the world around him starts to take form once more. 

He can hear Harry’s voice now, murmuring praises and gratitude and telling him how well he did, how beautiful he looks, and how much he loved seeing Draco so consumed with pleasure. 

Every part of his body feels spent with exhaustion, and it takes a ridiculous amount of effort to move his arms from his pillow and drop them to his sides. He’s panting and thirsty and sweaty and slowly getting colder as his heart rate evens out. 

Harry is suddenly lying next to him, and he tilts Draco’s head up with a hand on his neck, then presses the mouth of a water bottle to his lips. Draco concentrates what energy he has left on gulping down half the bottle before Harry takes it away.

Harry says something about getting Draco cleaned up, and then he moves off the bed and leaves Draco alone. 

Draco feels cut open and on display, laid out as he is, and he feels powerless to do anything about it with no strength left to move his limbs, but before that desperate ache becomes too terrible, Harry is back. 

Harry presses kisses to the side of Draco’s face, murmuring sweet words that are lost to Draco in his current state, but he can feel the affection in them and it helps to settle him. 

Draco’s eyes are dipping closed as he feels something warm and wet moving across his abdomen. He can feel the heat of Harry’s body pressed to his side and the low hum of his magic around him. 

Somehow Draco feels utterly wrung out and yet replete with satisfaction and happiness and love. Between one moment and the next Draco slips into that comfortable space it creates inside him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains vague implications of past dub-con (not between H/D).

Draco wakes to the smell of food. He blinks his eyes open and it takes a moment for them to adjust to the light in the room. He brings a hand up to rub the sleep from his eyes and pushes himself up onto an elbow to look around. 

The clinking of silverware on china draw his gaze across the room to Harry’s back. Draco watches him for a second, then drops back onto the bed, yawns and stretches his legs out under the covers. 

At the sound of his yawn, Harry turns and looks at him. His smile is easy and relaxed, and his eyes fill with warmth and affection as they land on Draco. 

Draco can’t help but return the smile, and it makes Draco’s stomach twist with happiness and nervousness. All Harry is doing is smiling at him while he sips at a cup of tea, but it sets Draco’s heart racing. 

“Good morning,” Harry says, and for some reason the words remind him of everything they did the night before.

Draco’s cheeks start to turn pink with embarrassment when he realises that he passed out after coming. He has no idea if Harry wanted Draco to reciprocate. He has no idea if Harry even came. He must have had to get himself off. 

“ ‘Morning,” Draco says, but it comes out as more of a croak than an intelligible word. He clears his throat and tries again. “Good morning.” 

It’s ridiculous and embarrassing, but if anything Harry looks even more fond for it, those crow’s feet Draco loves so much growing deeper. 

“I got room service,” Harry says and gestures to the platters of food and tea. “Hungry?”

“Yes,” Draco says immediately. He’s starving, actually, and thirsty too. When he moves to get up, Harry holds up a hand to stop him. 

“Let me bring it to you.” 

Draco blinks, but nods and sits up. He moves his pillow against the headboard and then leans back on it. 

Draco watches in wonder as Harry brings the tray of food over so that Draco doesn’t even have to get out of bed. Harry sets the tray in the middle of the bed between them. It’s filled with eggs, toast, beans, bangers, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, fresh fruit and yogurt. 

Harry leans over the tray for a kiss, which Draco automatically meets him for. He realises then that he has yet to brush his teeth and he keeps the kiss short and close-mouthed, though Harry doesn’t seem to mind.

“Tea or water?” Harry asks him and gets out of bed. 

“Tea.” Draco watches as Harry goes to the tea service and fixes him a cup, just the way Draco likes. 

When he returns to bed, Draco takes the offered cup, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips yet. Instead, he looks down at it and says, “I’m sorry. For last night.”

Harry stills and when he doesn’t answer, Draco looks back over to him. His head is tilted slightly, his brows are drawn in confusion and his eyes are searching Draco’s.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

“I’m sorry for passing out the way I did. Before, you know,” Draco says haltingly and gestures toward Harry’s crotch, “getting you off.” 

Harry’s expression morphs into relief and then amusement. “You mean you’re sorry for teasing me about passing out on you in the middle of it, and then you went and did it instead?”

Draco’s cheeks burn hotter with shame and he smacks the back of his hand against Harry’s shoulder. 

“Arse,” he says and then rolls his eyes when Harry laughs. “Okay, yes. I’m sorry for that.”

Harry’s grin softens and he says, “Nothing to be sorry for. I got what I wanted.”

“But I didn’t—” Draco starts to protest. 

“I told you what I wanted from the start and you gave me exactly that.” 

Draco bites his lip and searches Harry’s face for any hint of deception, but all he finds is sincerity and affection. 

Draco nods and then looks away. He sips at his tea and thinks about last night. It’s true that Harry hadn’t asked for anything other than what they did, but he can’t help the doubt and suspicion that sneak into his mind.

What man wouldn’t mind if they got their partner off and then the partner immediately passed out, leaving them high and dry?

Not to mention the fact that Draco fell asleep after Harry gave him the best, most intense, mind-blowing, toe-curling, life-alteringly amazing orgasm of his life. Even Draco, who will fully admit to being selfish at the best of times, can’t help but think that it’s a little unfair, and he finds it odd that Harry doesn’t seem at all bothered by it. 

“So,” Draco begins slowly, pushing his eggs around his plate, “did you jerk off on me afterward or...?”

Harry chokes on a piece of toast. 

Draco smirks while Harry coughs into his fist and then thumps his chest a few times. He’s a bit wide-eyed and red in the face when he turns to Draco.

“No, of course not,” he says. “You were unconscious.” 

“What, then? You went and tugged one off in the toilet?” Draco asks. At Harry’s somewhat sheepish expression, Draco laughs. “You could have, you know. Jerked off on me, that is. I wouldn’t have cared.”

Harry shakes his head and his expression turns more serious. “You couldn’t have consented to that.”

Draco hums and gives him a small smile. “Well, then I’m telling you now, if you ever again make me come so hard I pass out, you’re welcome to jerk off on me after. Just not in my mouth. Or my face or hair, not if I’m not awake,” Draco says, and then adds, “And only if you clean me up after. I don’t want to be sleeping all night covered in crusty spunk.”

Harry chuckles and shakes his head. He takes a bite of his toast, chewing slowly and then swallowing. He glances over at Draco, and asks, “So it was good, then?”

It’s Draco turn to nearly choke on his breakfast, except he doesn’t because he’s better mannered than Harry. 

“Good?” Draco parrots incredulously. “I had the best orgasm of my life and you ask me if it was _good?_ ” 

Harry smiles and somehow looks bashful, and Draco can’t quite believe this is the same man from last night.

“I’ll admit I may have been somewhat frustrated with the edging, I’m not a very patient man—” Harry snorts. “—but the payoff was more than worth a little sexual frustration. I’m pretty sure I transcended time and space and ascended to another plane during that orgasm.”

Harry’s expression moves from bashful to pleased and he laughs.

“Really,” Draco adds, “it was foolish of you to lead with that. I don’t know how you’ll ever top it.”

Harry’s eyes shine with challenge and that old competitive spirit Draco has missed. “I’ve got a few ideas.” 

The words send a shiver up Draco’s spine. His interest must be obvious in his expression, because Harry stops Draco from jumping his bones with a pointed, “Finish your breakfast. We need to check out before ten.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Something about last night, about the way Harry took him apart so completely and then carefully pieced him back together, makes Draco feel even closer to Harry than he felt before.

Sex isn’t usually an emotional affair for Draco, but that wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t the usual mindless rutting over or under another man, chasing a quick orgasm for the pleasure and release. That was another monster entirely. 

It felt more like true affection and care and...maybe even love. It scares Draco. This isn’t the kind of danger he’s used to dealing with, and it makes him feel vulnerable and exposed in a way he hasn’t felt in years—or maybe ever.

As they tear down the motorway, rolling hills and trees and cars passing by them in a blur, Draco revisits it all in his mind. He recalls the way Harry looked at him with such open desire and devotion in his eyes, the softly spoken words of encouragement and praise, and the tender way he cleaned him and kissed him and anchored him afterward. 

Draco’s stomach squirms and his heart beats faster when he thinks about it. It makes him feel jittery and skittish. It makes his hair stand on end and gives him the sudden and wildly irrational desire to jump off the motorbike.

Instead, Draco tightens his arms around Harry’s waist. He slides his hands up under the hem of his leather jacket to protect them from the cold wind rushing past. He nuzzles into the side of Harry’s neck and breathes in the comforting scents of leather and campfire and _Harry._

For a while it feels as if maybe if he wishes hard enough the motorway will last forever, and Draco won’t have to get off the bike and return to worrying about Harry exploding, or being attacked, or Ron going to Azkaban, or Damian taking over the Ministry. 

Draco is scared of what is happening between Harry and him, but now that he’s seen its potential he thinks he might be more scared of it ending. He is not sure where this road is taking them, but he knows that it has to end somewhere. 

Harry is probably scared to return to the Wizarding World and face all of his old friends and family again, but maybe if Draco can keep showing Harry that he is not a danger to others and that he deserves happiness, then maybe he can convince him to come back. 

Maybe if they can help Hermione take down Damian, the same wizard who tried Harry all those years ago and brought about his very public downfall, maybe Harry can find catharsis and redemption in that act. Maybe if Harry can face his demons and prove his worth, then he won’t feel like an outcast anymore.

The more Draco thinks about it, the more bound and determined he becomes to help Hermione take on Damian and redeem all of them. If he is working with the wizards that Draco was investigating, then maybe Draco can use that to his advantage. Maybe Draco can do his job one last time and unearth secrets that will bring about Damian’s downfall. 

When they get to the hotel, they go through the motions of setting up the wards and bringing in their things. Draco watches Harry as he dials Hermione’s number for their usual check-in. 

She doesn’t answer so Harry dials May and Draco watches the process again, curiously noting the buttons and numbers Harry pushes to connect him to May through the Muggle machine. 

May does pick up and she and Harry go through their routine of making sure the other is alive and well, but they don’t talk for long. Draco sits in the chair by the table with the phone on it and waits. 

With a goodbye and a promise to call again tomorrow, Harry hangs up and turns to Draco. Draco smiles up at him and Harry returns it, then he puts his hands on the arms of Draco’s chair and leans down to kiss him. 

Draco meets him for the kiss and his stomach flutters from the slow, heated way Harry moves his mouth against Draco’s. 

After a moment, Draco grabs the open edges of Harry’s jacket, breaks the kiss to tilt his head back, and pulls Harry down to his neck. Harry goes readily and rubs his beard against Draco’s neck, making Draco hum happily. 

As Harry kisses and sucks a line of marks down his neck, Draco closes his eyes and soaks in the attention. His lips part and his face flushes and his heart starts to speed with desire. 

It takes a monumental effort to push Harry away and say, “Let’s try Hermione again.” He wants to talk to her and explain his idea before Harry and he get too lost in each other.

Harry grunts out a grumpy note, but he concedes and straightens. After punching in the number, Harry hits another button that makes it so they can both hear and speak into the phone. 

Hermione answers on the fourth ring with a, “Harry?”

“Yeah, it’s us,” Harry answers. 

“How is the investigation going?” Draco jumps right in. 

Hermione sighs. “Not great. There’s just not enough time. I’m too public a figure to go probing into Damian’s activities openly. Luna is doing most of the investigating, but she’s not coming up with much either. His house is heavily warded, but she has seen him talking to some dodgy characters that she’s looking into now.”

At first the image of Luna sleuthing seems ridiculous, what with her garish outfits. But then, she did go unnoticed for much of her time at Hogwarts, and she took over the investigative journalism for The Quibbler after her father retired. Maybe it’s not so ridiculous a thing after all. 

“Probably the wizards I was investigating,” Draco says, repressing a shiver and a pleased sigh as Harry runs his fingers through Draco’s hair and starts scratching them through the shorter hair at the back of his neck. 

“That’s what we’re thinking, but how do we prove that? You could identify them, testify to their criminal activities, except no one would believe you,” Hermione says. “And we’re running out of time. The court is going to make their final decision on the thirteenth, two days from now.”

Draco blinks when he realises what the date is. With everything going on, his birthday had passed him by completely unnoticed. Well, apparently he is forty-three now. Happy birthday to him. 

Draco glances up at Harry, wondering if he makes the connection as well, though he doesn’t have an expression of realisation as he meets Draco’s gaze and keeps moving his fingers through his hair. Draco closes his eyes briefly and licks his lips when Harry’s talented fingers send little sparks skittering across his scalp. 

When he thinks back and counts out the days, Draco figures that his birthday must have been the day Harry told Draco to leave and they had fought. Then he shakes the thought away, deciding that this birthday doesn’t matter any more than the past dozen have. 

“How do you think the Wizengamot will side?” Draco asks.

“With Damian,” Hermione snarls, “and there’s—there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing I do or say makes a difference.” 

“I have an idea,” Draco begins hesitantly, darting a glance to Harry, then looking back to the telephone receiver laying on the table.

“You do?” Hermione sounds surprised. Harry gives Draco a curious look.

“Yes,” Draco says. “I’ve been thinking. I worked in their operation for months. I know them, and I think if I could talk to them, specifically if I could talk to Roberts alone I think I could convince him to let me back.”

Harry’s hand in Draco’s hair stills. Draco doesn’t have the courage to meet his gaze.

Hermione is quiet before asking, “How would you do that?”

“I have my ways,” Draco says breezily. “I haven’t been doing this successfully as long as I have for no good reason. I think I can convince him that I was spying for the Aurors under duress. I’ll spin a tale about getting caught and being threatened with time in Azkaban and having the Manor and my fortune seized.”

“Maybe…” Hermione says cautiously. “What about your time with Harry?”

Draco licks his lips nervously and looks up at Harry, who is standing over him. His eyes are dark and steady on Draco in a way that ratchets up his pulse. 

“He’s such a powerful wizard. What was I to do? After he broke my wand I was helpless to escape him.” 

Harry’s hand drops from Draco’s hair and his expression shuts down in a way Draco hasn’t seen in a while. It makes his heart ache and his gut twist, and Draco has to look away from him. 

“Everyone knows Harry and I hated each other in Hogwarts,” Draco adds. “And everyone knows I have a history of changing allegiances...going whichever way the wind is blowing. I would be a fool to keep fighting Damian.”

“Yeah, maybe you could make that work,” Hermione says hesitantly. 

“Once I’m with them I’ll look for evidence of a connection with Damian. Something we can use to expose him.”

“That could take months, though,” Hermione points out, but there is a level of hope in her voice that has been missing since Ron was first arrested. 

“Maybe, but I bet Damian will get cocky now that he’s in power. I bet he thinks that he’s won, and maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

Hermione hums thoughtfully. “He has been acting like even more of an egomaniac since he was named Acting Minister, like he’s untouchable.”

“Good. Then let’s rip the fucking rug out from under him. Once and for all,” Draco says vehemently. He doesn’t want to be on the run anymore. He doesn’t want to be the most wanted wizard in Britain. He doesn’t want to always be looking over his shoulder.

“It would still be very dangerous, Draco,” Hermione reasons. “They might just throw you in Azkaban. Or what if they use Legilimency on you?”

“You know I’m a trained Occlumens.” 

“Fine then, what if they use Veritaserum on you the way they did to Ron?” she asks.

Draco shrugs. “Then they’ll dole out whatever punishment they see fit, but I can’t keep pretending all of this isn’t happening. I need to do something, Hermione. You’re not getting anywhere with it; drastic measures must be taken.”

Hermione is quiet for a long moment before she sighs and says, “Okay. I’ll keep you updated on the trial, then let’s figure out a way of communicating when you’re with them.”

“Alright,” Draco agrees. 

The line goes dead, and Draco puts the receiver back on its stand. 

He turns and finds Harry standing on the other end of the room. His hands are in his jacket pockets and he’s looking at Draco with a steady, guarded expression. 

“You’re planning to leave, then,” he says with a flat tone.

“I have to,” Draco says and stands to face Harry. “Please, Harry—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry cuts him off.

“I was going to, I promise,” Draco says quickly. “I wasn’t keeping it from you, I only thought of it today on the drive here.”

“But you didn’t think it was worth mentioning first?” Harry asks pointedly. “You didn’t think it was worth discussing with me before proposing it to Hermione?”

“I wanted to talk to you first, of course,” Draco says, spreading his hand out in entreaty, “But then—” 

“But then I would point out to you all the times you said you weren’t going to leave,” Harry says harshly. “You didn’t want me to ask you whatever happened to us sticking together.” 

“I don’t want to leave you, but this is too important,” Draco argues and throws his hands out irritably, “I can’t keep living like this, Harry!”

“You mean living like a Muggle?”

“No, that’s not—well yes,” Draco admits with a sigh and explains, “I want to be able to return to _my_ world, where things actually make sense, but that’s not what I meant. I can’t keep going on like this, pretending none of these things are happening. I can’t keep living in this dream world and stand by while another tyrant takes over and throws my friends in prison!”

“So, after spending all this time running and hiding, you’re just going to throw yourself at the wizards who’ve been trying to kill you? And you think they’ll take you back, just like that?”

Draco takes a deep breath and sighs it out, trying to keep his voice level. “Yes. I think they will.”

“Why? Because you’re so good at lying and manipulating?” Harry asks, and though the words are harsh they’re spoken in a flat, indifferent tone that, if anything, makes them cut that much deeper. 

Draco clenches his jaw and swallows, fighting the sensation of his stomach twisting into painful knots. “Because I’m damn good at my job. I had Roberts’ trust once, and I know I can get it back.”

Harry’s eyes narrow and he looks at Draco in a carefully assessing way. “How’s that?” he asks slowly. “Did you fuck him?”

Draco sneers and tilts his nose up imperiously, unwilling to let Potter make him feel bad for his past choices. “And what if I did? Does it bother you, knowing that I fucked him? Him, and so many other thugs just like him.”

Harry’s blank gaze moves away then, looking over Draco’s shoulder instead of at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

Draco can’t help the manic laugh that slips out. “That’s right. Of course, how could I forget? Nothing fucking matters to Saint Potter anymore. You’ve already borne your cross and now you get to fuck off and wallow in your guilt and self-loathing.”

“You mean the kind of guilt and self-loathing that lead you to living everyday of your life as a lie? Devaluing and debasing yourself in the name of a righteous cause, trying to shake the stink of the war off you?”

“Fuck you,” Draco spits, hating the way Harry cuts right to the core of it all so easily. “At least I’m trying. Maybe you would too if you could get over yourself long enough to realise that there are people who need you.” His lip curls disdainfully. “And you think I’m the selfish one.”

Draco turns on his heel and marches out of the hotel room. He expects Harry to chase after him, but of course Harry doesn’t. 

If Harry wants to waste the rest of his sad life hiding under his wards, Draco clearly can’t stop him. Harry can keep on being an idiot, telling himself he’s doing the world a favour by not being a part of it. Why should he care?

Draco takes a long walk, keeping careful track of where he is and where he came from. 

Eventually, just before the sun dips below the horizon and he loses his light, Draco makes his way back to the hotel. 

Harry is laying on the bed reading. He pauses briefly to look up at Draco, and they share eye contact for a moment.

Draco isn’t sure if Harry is going to say anything. Draco is still angry and doesn’t want to talk about it, but he gives Harry a chance. 

Harry doesn’t speak either and instead returns his gaze to his book. 

Draco moves to the bathroom and takes a shower, feeling sweaty and gross from walking around the dirty city streets. Surely no one can blame him if he stays in the shower a little longer than necessary, trying to avoid an awkward conversation with Harry. 

He knows he should apologise, but he doesn’t want to. They both said hurtful things, but Draco isn’t going to change his mind. One way or another he’s going to help Ron out of this predicament, and he will expose Damian for who he really is. 

Draco stays longer in the bathroom to clean and dry his clothes with charms so he can put them back on before leaving. 

When he does come out, Harry is exactly where Draco left him. As he gets ready for bed, Draco hates the tense silence between them. 

Once he’s in his underclothes, Draco slips under the covers and turns on the TV. He hits the jackpot when he comes across a channel playing Judge Judy reruns and watches them until he feels tired. 

If the television bothers him, Harry doesn’t say anything about it. He reads quietly until Draco turns the TV off, shuts his lamp off, and rolls onto his side with his back to Harry. 

After a while, Harry’s lamp turns off and Draco can hear the clink of his glasses being sat on the nightstand and the rustling sound of Harry turning over. 

Long minutes tick by as Draco tosses and turns, unable to sleep. His mind whirls with their fight, reviewing everything Harry said and everything Draco said. He can’t stop reliving it and thinking about all the things he wishes he would have said and done instead.

Draco hates that this is where they are now when this morning it had been all easy smiles and playful teasing. He hates that there is an arm’s length between them when before they could scarcely stop touching each other. 

A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells him that it’s been almost two hours since he shut off the television. 

Draco turns his head on his pillow and looks at Harry’s bare back, exposed from the sheet only coming to his waist. 

It’s dark in the room, but his eyes are adjusted to it and the faint light from the electronics are enough to see Harry by. Draco’s eyes move over the tattoo on his back of a large wolf and a black dog howling together, a forest as the backdrop with a full moon and the Canis Major constellation above them. 

By his breathing pattern, Draco can tell that Harry isn’t asleep either. He rolls over onto his left side and reaches tentatively for Harry’s arm, running his fingers down the body of the phoenix there, following its tail feathers down to Harry’s elbow. 

The muscles in Harry’s arm flex briefly in response to the light touch, but he doesn’t pull away. Draco takes that as a good sign and scoots closer to him, smoothing his hand over Harry’s hip to rest on his stomach. 

Draco presses his forehead to the top of Harry’s back, right above the full moon there, and murmurs into it, “I’m sorry.”

He can feel Harry’s chest expand and contract with a deep breath, then Harry’s hand moves over Draco’s and laces their fingers together. 

“Me too,” is his quiet response. 

Draco sighs and closes his eyes, tucking himself up against Harry and holding him a little bit tighter. 

After a long stretch of silence, Draco whispers, “I can’t keep doing nothing.” 

As Harry answers Draco can feel the words rumbling in his chest, “You’ve already paid your dues, let Hermione handle it.”

“Ron’s saved my life now more times than I care to remember,” Draco says softly, “including when he brought me to you. At the very least I owe it to Ron to help him.” 

Harry’s voice comes hesitantly over his shoulder, “Just wait? Until the Wizengamot makes their decision. If they side with Ron, then he can testify to your innocence and they’ll...they’ll clear your name so you can go home.”

Draco sighs quietly. He runs his nose up the back of Harry’s neck and then nestles the side of his face there. “And if they find him guilty instead?”

“Then…” Harry trails off thoughtfully and then finishes, “we’ll figure it out.”

Draco chews on his bottom lip, thinking it over. In the end, he can’t deny himself two more days with Harry. 

He nods, kisses Harry’s shoulder and whispers an, “Okay.”

It’s not a perfect answer. He knows ultimately Damian will win and Draco will have to choose to leave Harry. He just hopes that when he returns, Harry won’t shut the door in his face.

◊ ◊ ◊

Warm presses of lips and the ticklish sensation of Harry’s beard brushing against his neck wake him the next morning.

“Harry,” Draco murmurs, voice coming out rough from sleep.

Harry hums in response, opening his mouth to suck a spot into Draco’s neck. Draco tilts his head back and cards his fingers through Harry’s hair.

Harry smooths a hand down Draco’s side and tugs at his waist, fitting himself more tightly against Draco. When Harry moves one of his legs over Draco’s, Draco can feel Harry’s erection press into his hip. 

“Mmm, good morning to you,” Draco mumbles with an amused huff. He can feel Harry’s smile against his neck before he nips at him playfully. 

Draco runs a hand down Harry’s back and gets a handful of that lush arse he has admired so often. He has his fun groping Harry, then encourages Harry to move on top of him fully. 

“This alright?” Harry asks when his weight is fully pressed down on Draco, legs between Draco’s.

“Mm, yes,” Draco answers, bending his knees and planting his feet on the bed so he can get leverage to roll his hips up against Harry. He tugs at Harry’s waist to encourage him to join and murmurs, “Come on, Harry.” 

They spend a few minutes rocking against each other, panting and moaning into each other’s skin. 

When Harry goes to kiss him, Draco accepts it at first, then turns his head away and mutters, “Morning breath.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says, kissing along Draco’s jaw instead.

“I do.” 

With a small huff, Harry stops their frotting so he can reach for his wand. He casts a Breath Freshening Charm on himself, then raises an eyebrow at Draco in question. Draco nods and Harry casts at him as well. 

“Protection Charm?” Harry asks, and Draco nods again. 

Harry pulls their pants down and casts once more at them before putting the wand away and replacing it with the vial of lube. He pours some onto his hand, rubs it on himself to warm it up, and then reaches his hand around Draco as well and strokes them together. 

Draco moans at the sensation of their slick cocks sliding together instead of the dry frotting. 

“Come here,” Draco murmurs and pulls Harry to him with a hand on the back of his neck.

They kiss deeply, a hot wet slide of minty-fresh tongues and bites and kisses as Draco rocks up into Harry’s hand, matching his strokes.

It’s nothing close to the intense orgasm Harry gave him two days ago, but it feels intimate being so close like this—the synchronised rhythm of their bodies rocking together, sharing heat and pleasure and release face-to-face. 

It ties a neat bow over their argument from yesterday.

Lying together afterward, breathing rapidly against each other as their sweat dries and their bodies cool, Draco has to try very hard to remember the reasons why he would ever leave this man, even temporarily.

When the mess on their stomachs starts to annoy him, Draco encourages Harry to join him in the shower for round two. 

Draco has barely gotten a chance to handle Harry yet and he wants to return the favour, as well as test out a theory. 

He pushes Harry against the shower wall and murmurs sweet praises to him as he takes his cock in hand and strokes him to fullness. 

Harry’s eyes close and his mouth drops open, his face flushes with heat and his cock twitches in Draco’s hand while Draco tells him how gorgeous he is, how talented his hands are, how good he makes Draco feel, and how proud Draco is of him for learning control of his magic.

He builds up Harry’s pleasure with firm strokes and whispered praises, and then he stops and backs off. 

“Draco, please,” Harry whines, and Draco can’t help winking at him and giving him a little taste of his own medicine. 

Draco loves taking back a bit of control, and he loves the feeling of having such a physically and magically powerful man trembling under his fingertips, begging for Draco to give him release.

When Harry has calmed down enough that Draco can start again without Harry coming too quickly, Draco tilts the shower nozzle away and grabs a towel. He folds it and puts it down between Harry’s feet, then kneels on it. 

He smooths his hands up Harry’s thighs. As his fingers pass over the tattoo, Draco briefly takes in the snowy owl on Harry’s right thigh that Draco has yet to get a good look at. 

He looks up and watches Harry watch him when he takes Harry’s cock in his mouth. Draco sucks on the head lightly and runs his tongue under it. Harry’s eyes drop closed briefly before jumping open to keep watching.

Draco works him back up slowly, massaging his balls in one hand while moving his mouth over Harry’s cock. 

“Touch yourself,” Harry tells him after a short while. 

Draco pops off Harry to smile and quirk an eyebrow at him. “You like seeing that? You get off on watching me get off?”

Harry bites his lip and nods, his gaze shifting down as Draco leans back and starts to stroke himself slowly. Harry avidly watches the tip of Draco’s cock move in and out of his fist, licking his bottom lip when it begins dribbling precome. 

Seeing Harry so hot and bothered by Draco’s pleasure sends a shiver up Draco’s spine. He didn’t realise how hot he would find that—a lover who gets off on getting Draco off. He can’t help thinking how perfect Harry and he are for each other. 

When Harry goes to stroke himself, Draco smacks his hand away and works Harry himself, stroking them each in tandem. 

“Do you want to come in my mouth or somewhere else?” 

“Chest?” Harry answers in the form of a question, and Draco nods his permission. 

He takes Harry back into his mouth then, sucking him hard and deep and massaging the underside of Harry’s cock with his tongue, all while still stroking himself. He has to close his eyes to concentrate on both tasks, keeping focused on his own pleasure because he knows that’s what Harry wants to see, while also trying not to slow down or get too distracted from blowing Harry. 

When he knows he’s close to orgasm, Draco pulls back and strokes Harry with his hand while building himself up to climax. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth drops open and he tips his head back right before his orgasm hits, and then he’s ejaculating out of his hand. Most of it lands on the shower floor, but some of his come hits the wall and Harry’s leg. 

Draco squeezes Harry a little more firmly and then it only takes two strokes before he is coming over Draco’s collarbones and the top of his chest. 

Draco works him through it, slowing his motions until Harry’s hips jerk one last time, and he waves Draco off his sensitive cock. 

Harry’s eyes are closed, and his back is leaned against the wall as he pants and comes down from the high of his orgasm. 

Draco grabs his hand, and Harry’s eyes slit open, looking down at him before realising what he wants. Harry helps pull Draco up to his feet, then Draco kicks the sodden towel out of the shower. 

“Not too bad for a couple of old men, hm?” Draco asks, his tone warm and content. 

Harry’s smile is slow and fond as it spreads over his face, then he puts a hand behind Draco’s neck and reels him into a kiss. Draco goes easily, pressing himself against Harry and indulging in the long and lazy slide of their lips and tongues together. 

When they pull apart, Harry has that look on his face, like Draco is a gift-wrapped present just for him. 

“Can I wash you?” Harry asks.

The corners of Draco’s lips quirk up in a small smile. “Is this another one of your kinks?”

Harry smiles a little sheepishly and shrugs. “I like taking care of you.”

Draco hums an appreciative note. “How could I resist?” 

Harry proceeds to lather Draco’s entire body in soap, rubbing and stroking and massaging his hands all over Draco’s body in a slow, attentive manner. 

Draco relishes the attention, feeling utterly spoiled and so cared for as Harry worships every inch of his body. 

Ridiculously, Draco finds it somewhat emotional and at one point his chest gets tight. He has to discreetly take a couple deep breaths to push down the swell of emotion and keep his eyes from watering. 

Harry doesn’t shy away from his nethers, paying them just as much care as the rest of his body as he washes them thoroughly with firm but gentle strokes. 

Draco’s cock makes a valiant effort of taking interest in the attention laid on it, but he won’t be able to come for a third time without a longer rest period. 

By the time they make it out of the shower, Draco feels as smooth and clean as a brand new cauldron, and he is ready to take a nap. 

They miss check-out time and Draco assures Harry that it’s fine and maybe even better this way. They are well away from where they were attacked before, Harry hasn’t had any mishaps with his magic here, and their wards are still active over the hotel room. 

Draco puts on a fresh pair of pants and then burrows into their bed. Harry lays down next to him, kisses shoulder and puts the telly on as Draco starts to nods off. 

“Draco?” Harry asks quietly before Draco can fall fully into slumber. 

“Hmm?” Draco hums sleepily.

“When this is over...are you going back to your life?”

Draco hums again, imagining Harry and himself returning to the Wizarding World. “Yeah,” he sighs happily. 

Harry makes a small noise of understanding then goes quiet, and Draco slips easily into his nap with blissful imagines of he and Harry together after this. 

When he wakes up, the light coming in through the curtains is dimmer, as the sun has changed angles. 

Draco yawns and stretches his limbs out, then closes his eyes again and lazes in the drowsy feeling of just coming out of a nap. 

He lets his mind wander as he works up the energy to fully wake up. Inevitably, he thinks about Ron, and Damian, and the fight he had with Harry. These aren’t the kinds of things he particularly wants to think of right after a relaxing nap, so he changes course and thinks instead of all the sex he and Harry had this morning.

With a soft hum, Draco recalls the feeling of Harry’s weight on top of him, of the way Harry watched him jerking himself off as Draco gave him a blow job, and the care Harry laid on him afterward. 

It had been brilliant, all of it, and Draco can feel his pulse in his cock from the rush of blood that accompanies the memories. He reaches a hand down and cups himself idly. 

Now that he is intimately acquainted himself with the weight, length and girth of Harry’s cock, Draco can well imagine it inside him—how it would feel stretching him open and pressing against his prostate. 

He licks his lips and looks over at Harry, who is watching a cooking show with mild interest. Draco rolls onto his side, scratches his fingers through Harry’s beard, and leans in to whisper in his ear, “I want you to fuck me.”

The mild interest in Harry’s expression sparks into genuine interest. 

“Oh, yeah?” Harry asks.

Draco smirks and nods. 

Harry rolls onto his side toward Draco, reaching out and grabbing the edge of the blanket. He pulls it lower, and Draco bites down on a grin when he sees the way Harry’s eyes zero in on the hand he has over his cock, lightly squeezing it and stroking over the hard shape of it in his pants. 

Draco uses the hand he has on Harry’s jaw to bring him into a kiss, pulling at him and moaning quietly into his mouth. 

Right as Harry is smoothing a hand down the small of Draco’s back and dipping his fingers under the waist of his pants, Draco’s stomach growls loudly. 

Harry pulls away with a chuckle, and Draco pouts. 

“I think maybe we should get some food in your stomach first,” Harry suggests, and Draco agrees with a nod and a resigned sigh. 

He is famished, when he thinks about it. They skipped over breakfast for sex. Not a bad trade off, in Draco’s opinion, but he needs to keep up his strength if they are going to continue. 

“I ordered food while you were sleeping. There’s a sandwich over there for you,” Harry says and nods toward the table with the phone on it.

Draco grumbles, but he drags himself out of bed and devours the sandwich. He does feel better once he has food in his stomach, and then he brushes the taste from his mouth and jumps back into bed with Harry.

Draco strips off Harry’s clothes first, wanting to feel skin pressed to skin with no barriers. They kiss for a while at first. Draco runs his hands over Harry’s tattoos as Harry traces his fingertips over all the sensitive spots he can find on Draco’s body—stomach, side, thighs, and behind his knees. 

Draco kisses across the tattoo on Harry’s breastbone of a stag skull with its antlers reaching up out to the edges of his collarbones and lilies growing like a crown over the skull. 

The passion is a low, steady flame between them, expressed in the unhurried way they explore and worship each other’s bodies, laying devoted kisses along the way, and murmuring reverent adoration like prayers. 

When Harry gets Draco on his back and slips a slick finger into him, Draco stretches his arms above his head and basks in the experience of letting Harry take care of him. 

Draco loves the way Harry rubs his beard to the inside of his thighs, and the way Harry kisses over to Draco’s hip as he steadily stretches Draco’s rim. He loves the languid pace Harry takes, and the way he watches Draco, like he could do this all day every day for the rest of his life and be perfectly content. 

Harry uses an excess of lube as he works one finger in and out again and again. Then he slips a second slick finger in, going even slower for a while to let Draco adjust before those two fingers are moving easily in and out of Draco. 

Draco hums in low, pleased tones, smiling and closing his eyes and occasionally running a hand over his chest just to feel the sensation, while luxuriating in the devotion Harry pays to him.

Draco moans when Harry starts to massage his prostate. He lifts his head from the pillow to look down and catches the roguish look Harry is giving him. 

“Unng, fuck,” Draco groans and drops his head back, closing his eyes and focusing on the sensation of Harry’s fingers circling his prostate. 

He clenches his hands, then slides them down his chest to his pelvis, sliding briefly through his pubic hair and then stopping right above his prick. 

Part of Draco wants to grab his cock to ground the electric thrill coursing outward across his body and draw all that stimulation back into the familiar area, making for a much faster and more achievable orgasm, but the other part of him doesn’t because the prostate orgasm Harry gave him last time was so brilliant.

“Harry,” Draco groans, panting and looking down the length of his body to catch Harry’s gaze again.

Harry smiles in obvious delight of Draco’s desire and frustration. He scratches his beard against the inside of Draco’s thigh which makes Draco’s cock jump against his stomach and leak precome. Harry seems far too smug in the knowledge of how much Draco loves his beard.

“How do you feel about coming untouched today?”

Just the question makes his toes curl. 

“Yes, gods, yes,” Draco answers eagerly and rocks down onto Harry’s fingers. It’s no question, really, Draco has always wanted to experience coming untouched from getting fucked. 

Harry smiles and nips at Draco’s inner thigh, making Draco twitch and give a small, startled noise. 

Harry works a third finger into him and stretches him on it in long, unhurried strokes. After a while he casts a Protection Charm on himself and slathers his cock in lube, and Draco watches it keenly as it moves through his fist. 

Harry taps a hand on Draco’s thigh and says, “Hands and knees.” 

Draco follows the instruction, turning over and getting in position. Like this he won’t be able to simply lie back and let Harry pleasure him while expending little effort himself, but he knows Harry will have a better angle on his prostate. 

Harry smooths his hands down Draco’s back, then grabs one buttock and pulls it aside with his thumb while the other hand grabs at his cock to guide it into Draco. 

Draco gasps softly at the initial stretch, mouth falling open.

“How’s that?” Harry asks, pushing in a little deeper.

“Good,” Draco breathes. “Perfect.”

Harry pulls back and then presses forward again, repeating the action slowly several times to ease Draco into it. Maybe a few months ago Draco wouldn’t have needed the extra care, but it has been a while and Draco appreciates it. 

Once Harry is able to push his full length into Draco, he spends a few minutes fucking him with long, deep strokes. 

Draco moans and revels in the hot, full sensation of Harry buried in him. When Harry seems like he’s going to stop, Draco pushes back onto his cock. 

“Don’t stop, not yet,” Draco says, and Harry pauses so he adds, “Please. Want to feel all of you. Just a little longer.”

“Alright,” Harry says, sliding a hand up Draco’s stomach and leaning over to kiss up his spine. He rocks his hips forward again, thrusting in and out of Draco. 

When Draco had always imagined sex with Harry before, he imagined it being fast and hard and vigorous. He never would have expected the slow, deep thrusts and adoring kisses and softly spoken encouragements. He knew sex with Harry would be intense, but it is a much different sort of intensity than Draco ever imagined. 

After a while, Harry switches the deeper thrusts for shallower ones. He angles himself to press his cockhead perfectly into Draco’s prostate and thrusts into it in a steady but faster rhythm. 

Draco cries out at the sensation—the combination of Harry’s girth stretching him and pulling at his rim, while unerringly hitting the mark of his prostate with every thrust. 

His stomach tenses and his thighs feel weak and his feet tingle with sensation, a combination that is as pleasurable as it is overwhelming. 

Harry keeps thrusting into Draco’s prostate, again and again in an unrelenting sequence of that slow-building, full-body pleasure. He feels lit from within with the indescribable sensation flooding his body, pushing out from his core all the way to his extremities.

The deep pressure building inside him throbs with every press of Harry’s cock to his prostate, and Draco’s skin feels like it’s on fire all while goosebumps skitter up his body and his nipples pebble. 

“Oh gods,” Draco cries, feeling so close yet so far. His cock is hard and dripping and bouncing to the rhythm of Harry driving himself into Draco. It’s been neglected the entire time and Draco wants so badly to strip it raw to get off, but his arms are shaking with the effort of keeping himself up and not collapsing from the next thrust. 

He knows he can’t reach down and touch himself without toppling them and he wants to come so badly but more than anything he doesn’t want to end this. 

“Harry, please,” Draco begs quietly. It feels as if there’s still a vast ocean to cross between where he is now and his orgasm. That deep, internal pleasure spreading throughout his body feels so good but so different from how he is used to coming. 

“Come on, babe,” Harry encourages, pressing himself against Draco’s back and altering the angle and the speed of his thrusts. “I want you to come for me, just like this. Want to feel you come apart on just my cock. I know you can do it, love.”

“I want it, Harry, I want it, but I don’t know,” Draco says, unable to keep the doubt from his mind. It’s different now than when Harry did it before because today Harry didn’t jerk him off or blow him beforehand. 

“Focus, I know you can,” Harry murmurs into Draco’s shoulder, laying kisses up it to the back of his neck and wrapping an arm around Draco to help hold him up, all the while never faltering in the rhythm pushing his cock again and again to Draco’s prostate. “You look so gorgeous like this, Draco.”

Draco moans and squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on Harry’s words and how the movement of his mouth against Draco’s neck brushes his beard over the sensitive skin. The muscles in his abdomen flex and relax over and over as he chases his orgasm, feeling so full and awash with that pleasure radiating through him from the inside out.

“So beautiful when your body is flushed and sweating and you’re pushing back on my cock like this,” Harry keeps raining sweet praises and compliments on him. “I love the sounds you make, love how you feel. Perfect, you’re so perfect, Draco.”

Draco mouth drops open and he cries out as his orgasm hits him hard and fast. His entire body tenses as it lights up with waves of pleasure shaking him apart. He barely notices the come shooting from his cock onto the sheet below because he feels like he is orgasming not just with his cock, but with his entire body. 

Harry holds him through it and Draco is distantly aware of when Harry’s body tenses and his hips jerk into him, followed by the warm sensation of come filling him. 

Draco’s body is trembling from holding his position and the massive amount of energy that orgasm took from him. He’s lost all his strength and collapses onto the bed in relief and exhaustion and satisfaction, and Harry slips out of him when he does.

Draco grunts in irritation at falling on his wet spot, but he’s too tired to move off it. Harry is dragging kisses across the line of his shoulders and telling him how proud he is of Draco, how he knew he could do it and how perfect he looks. 

A chill runs up his spine and he feels utterly spent but so happy and radiant. He’s so pleased he was able to come untouched and so pleased at the way Harry praises him for it. He never knew how good it could feel to hear a lover compliment him so. Maybe Harry isn’t the only one with a praise kink. 

Harry moves away from him and Draco can feel the bed bounce as he gets off it. Immediately Draco feels cold and alone and like he’s in freefall with nothing to anchor him. Once again Harry has managed to cut him open and make him feel like his soul is being sucked from his body while he is powerless to stop it. 

Then the bed dips and Harry is beside him again, rolling Draco onto his side and off the wet spot. 

“Don’t leave,” Draco murmurs to him, shivering as Harry presses the hot length of his body against him. 

“I won’t, I’m not leaving,” Harry whispers into his ear, pressing soft kisses behind it and casting Cleaning Charms over them and the sheets.

Harry presses the lip of a water bottle to his mouth, and Draco drinks from it. When he’s finished, Harry leans away briefly to set it and his wand aside.

Harry pulls the heavy weight of the covers on top of them. He wraps his arms around Draco and throws a leg over him, and it feels as if he’s holding Draco together—as if his embrace is the only thing keeping Draco from coming apart at the seams. 

“I’ve got you, love,” Harry tells him as he nuzzles into his neck and rubs his beard against him.

Draco’s chest feels like it shrinks two sizes and he swallows hard to choke back the rush of emotions. He feels so vulnerable and exposed and it scares him. He’s scared by how easily Harry could ruin him. It feels like too much trust to place in one person. 

Draco slips easily back into sleep from the exertion of sex and being enfolded in Harry’s warmth. 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Draco wakes to the feel of Harry dragging slow kisses up his neck. Draco hums his approval and slits his eyes open to find the room dimly lit from the last remaining daylight filtering in through the window. 

“Think you can go again?” Harry murmurs and his breath tickles Draco’s ear. 

Draco moans and breathes out a, “Yes.” 

Harry runs his nose along the shell of Draco’s ear and sucks his earlobe into his mouth, sliding his hand down Draco’s body and finding his cock. He strokes Draco slowly while laying attention on his ear. Draco’s cock hardens from the attention, but it can’t get as hard as it did earlier.

Harry pauses briefly to cast the appropriate charms, and then pushes Draco onto his side. He fits himself right up behind him, leaned somewhat over Draco, almost pushing him over but not quite. He gets a hand under Draco’s neck and pushes his chin up to kiss him.

While they kiss, Harry slips two slick fingers into Draco, fucking him back open with them. His thrusts are slow but there’s an undercurrent of urgency that he feels from Harry as he fits a third finger in. 

Draco doesn’t mind, he’s still relaxed from sleep and an entire day of fucking, and he pushes his tongue into Harry’s mouth and kisses him hungrily, trying to convey his own need for Harry right back at him. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to come a fourth time, but he wants the intimacy and he wants to fuck regardless.

Draco’s mouth opens in a silent gasp when Harry slides his fingers out and replaces them with his cock. He closes his eyes as he reacquaints himself with the sensation of Harry filling him. 

Harry kisses his cheek and his jaw and pushes his chin back to allow better access to hungrily kiss and bite at Draco’s neck.

Harry’s other hand travels down Draco’s side, gripping at his waist, at his hip, grabbing and pulling and kneading at his body as he rocks his hips against Draco, moving his cock in and out and pressing and rubbing against Draco’s prostate. 

He’s not fucking Draco rougher than he did before, but there’s a more ravenous quality to it, like he’s trying to express all of his desire and need for Draco in how tightly he holds him and in the almost desperate way he works each purple bruise across Draco’s neck. 

His thrusts are slow and shallow, pushing maybe halfway in, hunting for just the right angle to pressure his prostate. Harry gets his hand under Draco’s knee and pulls his upper leg closer to his chest, and—

“Oh, fuck! Yes, yes, Harry,” Draco moans, reaching back and grabbing a handful of Harry’s hair. 

Harry moans as Draco tugs at his hair and pants into his ear, “Right there, babe? You gonna come for me just like this?”

“Yes, yes, Harry. Please, I want it,” Draco begs shamelessly as Harry thrusts in and out of him again and again.

All shame had flown out the window the first time Harry had so confidently and unerringly attacked his prostate and brought him to orgasm without any other stimulation today. Harry is like a fucking prostate Niffler, and he hits the spot almost perfectly with every thrust, sending sparks skitting out over Draco’s skin and feeding the slow build of pressure inside him.

Harry’s fingers dig into Draco’s leg, gripping under his thigh almost painfully. The other hand holding Draco’s jaw twists his head so Harry can kiss across his cheekbone, down his jaw, then his mouth. It feels somehow both tender and dominating at the same time.

From the way Harry is grabbing him and moving him, Draco feels completely in Harry’s control, yet Draco also feels that he is the one with all the power. He’s come to realise how every move Harry makes is to pleasure Draco, regardless of if the position or speed or depth does much for Harry.

Harry is almost entirely focused on Draco’s pleasure and finds his own within it. It drives Draco wild with desire for the man. Before today he had no idea anyone like this existed or that this is what he has been looking for in a lover all this time.

What Draco wants most is to be cherished and cared for, and to have someone devoted to his needs. Egotistical as it may be, Draco wants someone who gets off on getting Draco off. Somehow, he’s found that magic formula in Harry.

Harry picks up the rhythm, putting harder pressure against his prostate with every thrust and Draco melts beneath it. It feels almost as if he’s lost all control of his body and all he can do is take what Harry gives him and moan out his pleasure. With the way Harry is holding him, Draco can’t even rock back onto his cock the way he normally would.

Since Harry first started riding his prostate, Draco has felt on the precipice of orgasm with pleasure pooling hot and heavy in his groin and radiating out through his entire body. It’s so much and yet not quite enough, and Draco nearly sobs from it, feeling like Harry is convinced he can do the impossible and make Draco come untouched again. 

“Harry—oh fuck—Harry, Harry,” Draco pants. “I’m gonna—”

As ever, anyone who doubts Harry is proven wrong, and Draco comes so hard he sees stars. 

His body tenses and clenches as his orgasm peaks and then comes rolling through him like an avalanche, racking his body with pleasure and release. 

Draco feels it everywhere, from his fingers to his toes, and he can’t help gasping and whimpering as the whole-body orgasm rolls through him, making him tremble and his hips twitch and his cock jerk on a dry orgasm. 

Slowly, after an age of riding out the pleasure, the waves slow and his climax fades.

As sound returns to his consciousness, Draco hears Harry murmuring sweetly in his ear, “...beautiful, so good for me, Draco. You’re incredible. You have no idea how fucking amazing you look like this.”

“Mmm, tell me how I look,” Draco purrs languidly, loosening his fingers which had been clenched on Harry’s hair and scratching them lightly in circles over his scalp instead. 

“Perfect,” Harry says, kissing down Draco’s cheek to his jaw. “So bloody perfect.”

Harry spreads his fingers under Draco’s neck and jaw and uses his grip to tilt Draco’s face up towards him. He presses a heated kiss down on Draco, slipping his tongue in easily and kissing him deeply. His other hand releases Draco’s thigh, smoothing up his leg and gripping at his waist.

Harry is still inside him, and Draco moans into the kiss and pushes back against him, sliding his cock a little deeper in. 

“Keep going, love. Wanna feel you come inside me,” Draco says against Harry’s mouth. 

Harry’s hips jerk forward seemingly involuntarily at these words, then he starts to rock in and out of Draco again, picking up a deeper rhythm than before.

“You’re amazing, Harry,” Draco coos and runs his fingers through Harry’s hair. “Always make me feel so fucking good. I’ve never orgasmed so hard in my life. So good to me, make me feel complete—” 

Draco bites his tongue at the last slip-up, but Harry has already stiffened against him, climaxing from the praise. He doesn’t seem to notice Draco’s confession as he is lost in the throes of his own orgasm, moaning and gripping at Draco’s waist and rutting into him. 

As he comes down from his orgasm, Harry releases a deep, satisfied sigh that washes warmly across Draco’s neck. He presses affectionate kisses along Draco’s cheekbone, down his jaw, and behind his ear.

“Perfect,” Harry whispers. “So perfect for me.”

Draco’s body is overcome with exhaustion from the marathon of sex. He’s had more orgasms than he ever thought he would be capable of having in a single day ever again, but Draco feel so right and at peace with Harry wrapped around him and inside of him, and Draco wants to hold on to this feeling forever. 

Harry sighs tiredly as his breathing evens out, and he snuffles behind Draco’s ear, breathing him in and running the tip of his nose along the back of Draco’s ear. 

Draco fears that Harry might get up and leave him, and he reaches back and desperately grabs at Harry’s hip, holding and pulling at him, keeping his cock inside him. Draco wants to stay like this. He wants to never let go of this feeling, like he’s finally whole. 

“Don’t leave,” Draco breathes, barely a whisper, but Harry hears him. 

“I won’t,” he answers just as softly.

“Stay here, stay with me,” Draco says, tugging at Harry’s hip and not letting him pull out.

“I will,” Harry reassures him, pressing in closer. He wipes at the tear tracks on Draco’s cheeks, which Draco hadn’t even noticed until then. “I will.”

Draco’s eyes slip shut in relief. As he falls asleep his mind swirls with sweet, vaporous thoughts of contentment, happiness, and forever.


	13. Chapter 13

The next day passes in a blur, but there is more tension than before. They are both still sore and tired from how much sex they had the day before, and Draco isn’t sure that he could do more. They spend most of the morning cuddling in bed and exchanging languid kisses, but once they get up and get dressed, the air in the room becomes too anxious for either of them to initiate anything more. 

They are waiting for Hermione’s call to hear what the Wizengamot decides, but Draco is having a hard time thinking about much beyond his relationship with Harry. 

He has never felt this way toward anyone before, and part of him wants to hold on tight and never let him go, while the other half wants to run away. He has never been in love before so he can’t be certain, but he thinks this must be what it feels like. 

Draco had always imagined that it would be some dazzling, sweeping emotion that would overtake him and make him see fireworks when he fell in love, but he’s surprised to find how the feeling is more like a small flame catching the edge of a page and slowly but surely spreading to every corner until there’s no part that hasn’t been enveloped in it. 

He doesn’t see fireworks when he kisses Harry, he sees them sitting on a couch holding hands while reading and watching telly. He sees them bumping shoulders in the kitchen while making dinner together. He sees the lines around Harry’s mouth and eyes growing deeper with age and those streaks of silver in his hair taking over the rest of his mane.

There’s no carriage rides through the English country, no writing their names in dance cards at lavish balls, no exchange of courtship tokens—there’s none of the romance Draco imagined as a child, but he finds that he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t need any grand romantic gestures to get his heart beating. 

Rather, it’s the small things that make Draco realise how deeply he feels for Harry. It’s the way his stomach flutters when Harry knocks his foot against Draco’s when they’re eating, it’s the warmth that fills his chest when Harry hands him a cup of tea just as he likes it, and it’s in the way his heart beats a little faster when he sees Harry doing something as trivial as reading a book, not even aware of Draco’s gaze on him.

Draco tries to imagine compartmentalising his feelings for Harry and slipping back into bed with Roberts. It makes his gut wrench sickeningly and he has to swallow down the bile forcing its way up his throat. 

Just the thought of not waking up next to Harry in the morning makes every nerve in Draco’s body scream in defiance. 

Draco’s heart jumps up in his throat when their telephone rings. Harry and he make eye contact, and then Harry gets up and picks up the phone. 

“Hermione?” he asks.

Over the speaker Draco can hear sniffling and when she speaks, her voice is thick with anguish. “D-Damian won. They’ve put him—they sentenced Ron to Azkaban. For life.”

Draco sighs and closes his eyes. For a second, he had allowed a tiny corner of himself to hope. But he knew it would end up like this. 

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Draco says with as much confidence as he can muster. “We’ll get him out. I promise.”

“What if—” she cuts off with a choked out sob. “What if they kill him? What if they kill him while he’s in Azkaban? You said you thought Damian’s men might have—might have killed you both during the raid, if they’d had the chance.”

Draco curses under his breath, and then says, “And now they have a chance. Maybe they won’t, but…”

If Damian is worried that Ron knows about him being connected to the Trutina, then it seems likely he would kill him for it. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. That’s what Draco would do, if he were in Damian’s position. Better to get rid of any evidence.

This way they can shrug it off as just another wizard who lost the will to live after being in Azkaban for too long. Draco well knows how Azkaban can eat away at a person’s soul and bring them to the point where they no longer wish to live. He saw his own father deteriorate in this manner. 

“But now there’s nothing to stop them,” Hermione finishes the thought for him. 

“I’ll contact Roberts today, I’ll convince him to meet with me and I’ll find something you can pin on Damian. We’ll get Ron out, as soon as we can. We’ll save him,” Draco says just as much to reassure himself as Hermione. 

“Right. And I’ll keep looking from my end,” Hermione answers. “Do you still have your enchanted coin that you used with Ron?”

“Yeah.”

“I found its mate, we can use that to stay in touch,” she says, her voice seeming to steady as a plan is formed.

“Alright, I’ll call you again before I meet with Roberts.” 

“Okay, I’ll talk to you then,” Hermione says and hangs up.

Draco hangs up the phone, then looks over to Harry, who is standing a few feet away, looking like he’s in a distinctly stormy mood. 

“So that’s it then? You’ve already decided your course of action?” Harry gets right to the point.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Draco says, and when Harry shakes his head angrily, Draco steps over to him and grabs Harry’s hand. “I _am._ Believe me, I don’t want to do this. I just don’t see any other way.”

“You haven’t even tried to see another way,” Harry says, raising his voice and tossing a hand out in an infuriated gesture. 

“What else could I possibly do?” Draco throws back at him, his own voice raising to match. “You don’t give a shit about any of this! And since you can’t be bothered to help—”

“I wish everyone would stop assuming what I want and just fucking ask me!” Harry yells. 

Draco steps back and drops Harry’s hand, stunned by his outburst. He blinks and then furrows his brow. “You’ve never once taken an interest in this, why would you care now?” 

“I care about Ron’s life just as much as you do,” Harry snarls. “Stop treating me like I’m—like I’m fucking broken. You and everyone else, ‘Don’t get involved, Harry. Don’t worry about it, Harry. Stop caring so much about things that don’t concern you anymore, Harry!’ ”

“Harry, I—I didn’t mean—” Draco stutters out, completely taken aback to find out that this is how Harry has felt this whole time.

“Oh, really? You didn’t mean to cut me out of your scheming? You don’t think that I’m a liability—that I ruin everything I touch?” Harry asks, eyes dark and wild. “You don’t think I failed being the hero, failed being an Auror, and failed at being a normal fucking wizard? So of course how could I possibly help you now?”

“No!” Draco shouts back at him angrily. “Of course I don’t think that! Don’t put words in my mouth! Don’t—don’t project your issues onto me!”

“Is that what I’m doing?” Harry asks with sarcastic vitriol. “So then you _don’t_ think that I’m ‘wallowing in my pathetic guilt and self-loathing’ over my many failings?” 

Draco throws his hands up in frustration. “I was just—I was angry when I said that, I didn’t mean it!”

Harry scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head and turning away to pace the length of the room, looking like a caged animal. 

Draco can feel Harry’s fury reflected in the heavy, thunderous sensation of his magic pouring out of him. The wards are keeping a lid on it for now, but Draco doesn’t want it getting worse. The last thing they need is for Harry to lose control, alert the Ministry and get them attacked again. 

“Harry, you’re right. I should not have been dismissive of your feelings. I should have talked to you about this first. I apologise,” Draco says slowly and carefully, trying to not let any annoyance seep into his tone. 

It gets Harry to stop pacing and take a breath. He meets Draco’s gaze, still looking frustrated but somewhat calmer as he slowly exhales. 

“Whenever I’ve mentioned Damian before you’ve acted like it doesn’t affect you. You’ve acted like you don’t care about any of what’s been going on. That’s why I thought you didn’t want to be involved,” Draco explains. 

“Just because I don’t care about your politics doesn’t mean I wouldn’t step in to stop my best friend from being murdered,” Harry says, his tone still bitter, but not nearly at venomous as it was before.

“Of course,” Draco says, placating but sincere. “Of course you would care. I’m sorry I brushed you off, I’m just—this whole ordeal has me all messed up. I just need to do what I can to fix it. I need to save Ron and clear our names somehow.”

Harry runs his tongue over his teeth and sighs out his nose. “You want to save Ron? Okay then, let’s go,” he says and gestures to the door. 

Draco’s expression twists in confusion. “And do _what,_ exactly?”

“Let’s get him out of Azkaban,” Harry says like it’s the most obvious solution.

Draco blinks at him a few times and tilts his head to the side. “How?” 

Harry gestures up and down his person. “You have the only tool you need. I’m a fucking atom bomb, just point me in a direction and watch me explode.” 

“I…” Draco begins and trails off. 

It’s ridiculous, it’s absurd, it’s utterly insane. It’s probably the best solution. 

The more Draco thinks about it, the more he sees the logic in it. With Harry’s magic they could blast their way straight into Azkaban, grab Ron and be back in time for tea. 

All the danger and uncertainty of going back undercover only to wind up either dead, imprisoned, or waiting months on end for the right piece of evidence to fall in his lap can be avoided by going directly to the source. 

It won’t expose Damian, but they can get Ron somewhere safe and give Hermione and Luna more time to investigate him, especially now that they know what to look for. 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Harry snarks testily when he sees the dawning realisation on Draco’s face. “And if you had just talked to me first instead of going on about some cockamamy scheme that would get you killed or worse, we could have avoided all of this.”

Draco releases a frustrated breath and drags a hand over his face, making an effort to stay calm and not snap back. “I get it, okay? I’m an arsehole, I should have spoken to you first. How many more times will I have to apologise?” 

Harry glares a moment longer and then breaks his angry gaze away and sighs. The tension slowly seeps from his shoulders and his magic starts to settle.

Draco watches him suspiciously, then asks, “Have you done your exercises today?” 

Harry frowns at him. Draco puts a hand on his hip and challenges him with a raised eyebrow. 

Harry huffs and rolls his eyes. “No.”

“Of course,” Draco mutters. “Do some fucking push ups and calm down.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Harry snaps. 

Draco groans in frustration, holding his hands up and looking to the ceiling. “I wasn’t trying to be patronising.”

“Of course not, I’m just an idiot for skipping my workout and it’s my fault I’m upset,” Harry says sarcastically. 

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Draco argues.

“Actually, that’s exactly what your words imply—I’m angry with you because I skipped my workout and not because you’ve been an arse. It invalidates my feelings and conveniently erases any wrong-doing on your part.”

Draco clenches his hands into fists and grinds his teeth together. He has to take a deep breath before he is calm enough to answer. 

“You’re right. It does sound that way, but it is not what I _meant,_ ” Draco says. “Harry, _please._ I don’t want to fight.”

Harry shakes his head, making a dismissive gesture and turning away to grab his coat. 

It makes anger flare up in Draco’s chest, but he pushes it aside. Clearly Harry isn’t ready to talk about it right now. It’s frustrating but they can clear the air later.

◊ ◊ ◊

After Hermione got done yelling at them, she reluctantly agreed to their plan but then told them that Damian’s petition to get Dementors back in Azkaban had gone through.

Hermione also tells them that Ron had been transferred to Azkaban that afternoon after the trial, and they decide to wait until the cover of night before leaving. 

Harry stays on the road at first to get out of the Muggle area, then when they are far enough outside the city, Harry takes the bike up into the air.

Draco clings to him with a weight of frustration and nerves sitting heavily on his chest. He knows first-hand how powerful Harry is, but he is not all-powerful, and knowing they will have to face Dementors has Draco on edge. 

Draco has never been able to cast a Patronus. Of course he had tried as a child after seeing Harry’s. He had been jealous and wanted to show that he could do it too, but he had never managed it. And then with everything he’s done since the war, Draco has long been too scared to even try. 

Draco believes the old tale about the Dark wizard Raczidian being consumed by maggots when he tried to cast a Patronus. He believes in the theory that only those with a pure heart can safely cast one. 

Draco rests his face against Harry’s shoulder, breathes him in and tries to quiet his nerves and mentally prepare himself for what is to come. 

Not long into the flight, a storm rolls across the sea and lightning streaks across the sky. Draco casts an Umbrella Charm over them that helps keep them dry, but does nothing for the biting wind that sends a chill straight to his bones. 

The clouds cover the moon and further darken their approach, but it turns the waves below them black and wrathful and plays on Draco’s nerves. 

The sea, and the storm, and the ride seem to drag on and on, and Draco wishes they would just _get there._ The anticipation is always the worst part, but once they are close enough, an icy sensation sinks even deeper into his heart than the weather and Draco regrets wanting the ride to end. 

His fingers clench on Harry’s jacket as guilt and regret and sorrow ooze out of the darkest corners of his mind. All the emotions he has been bottling up and compartmentalising over the years—the grief of his father’s death and the guilt from his mother’s. Knowing that he is alone, so alone in the world, that no one really knows him or loves him and no one ever will. It’s too late to change who he has become and there is no hope for happiness or redemption—

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” Harry yells above the wind and the crashing waves, and his stag bursts forth from his wand in a flash of light brighter even than the lighting, illuminating them and the waves below and the clouds above and the island in front of them. 

The stag charges at the Dementors approaching them and sends them scattering just like the shadows in Draco’s mind. 

Draco releases a ragged breath against the back of Harry’s neck as his Patronus fills Draco with warmth and happiness and assurance that everything is going to be alright. Harry’s magic feels even more like a living thing around him, pulsing with that same passion and life and strength that flows through Harry. 

When they touch down on the island, Harry’s stag is circling them and warding off the Dementors. Harry turns off the bike and as they head toward the gate, Draco takes his hand. Harry glances at him and they share a brief nod.

They stop in front of the gate, hands clasped, and cast together to bring down the wards, illuminated by the light of Harry’s Patronus. 

Even with Harry’s magic and their combined effort, it takes a few minutes to dissolve the defensive wards on the gate. Draco’s heart is up in his throat and he can hear it pounding loudly in his ears, but his wand hand is steady.

As soon as the wards are down, Harry blasts the gate open and they rush forward and through the front doors of the prison.

The first wizard that they come across blinks as if he thinks he is seeing things, and his hand scarcely has time to move toward the wand at his hip before the pair of Stunning spells from Harry and Draco send him flying into the wall and he crumples to the floor unconscious. 

“Come on, this way,” Draco says, squeezing Harry’s hand tighter and leading them to the warden’s office.

The stag charges ahead of them in the halls, clearing out the Dementors gathering around the fringes of its light. They don’t see more human guards on the way, and Draco wonders how many are left in the prison since the Dementors were allowed back. 

As Draco is casting a spell to break open the warden’s door, Harry duels with a witch that turns the corner and tries to hex them. The movement of the Dementors and Harry’s bright Patronus are sure to bring more attention to them the longer they are here. 

Draco throws himself into the office, readily blocking the spell cast at him and countering with a quick Full-Body Bind that freezes the warden and has him falling hard to the ground. 

Harry takes position in the doorway, casting another Patronus when his fades and directing it to repel the Dementors trying to get to them. Draco rushes in and hastily hunts through the scrolls and books on the warden’s desk until he finds the inmate registry. 

Draco turns the heavy, leather-bound tome toward himself and sweeps it open, flicking through the pages until he finds the most recent one. 

“Ron, Ron, Ron,” Draco mutters to himself as he scans down the large page. Finally, he gets to the log of Ron’s intake today and finds which cell he is being kept in. 

“378, he’s in 378!” Draco calls to Harry, running back to him, following him out of the office and toward the twisting staircase at the far end of the hall. 

Harry takes the lead up the stairs while Draco keeps an eye behind them. The stairs go on and on, and Draco gets winded and his legs start to burn, but adrenaline keeps him going until they get to the third floor of the fortress. 

As Harry’s stag sweeps Dementors away from their left, another Dementor rushes them from the right. 

“Harry!” Draco yells at him, and Harry turns and casts the Patronus spell again, creating an incorporeal shield to repel the Dementor until his stag returns to chase it away. 

Draco grabs at Harry’s hand and leads them down the twisting corridors of prison cells. Some have thick wooden doors while other cells are banded with iron bars. Gaunt faces and hollow eyes raise to watch them passing through the dark, dank halls of the prison. 

When they reach the cell that has the rusted numbers 378 above the door, Harry slashes his wand through the air and rips the door from its hinges, sending it splintering and crashing against the opposite cell. 

Draco steps inside with a muttered, “ _Lumos,_ ” and casts the light around the dingy chamber. 

Draco blinks and furrows his brow, not quite believing what he is seeing. He feels Harry’s presence step up behind him as he too searches the cell. 

It’s empty. 

“No,” Draco breaths, his heart sinking to the floor. 

A million thoughts rush through his mind. Ron is already dead. Ron is being tortured somewhere in the bowels of this fortress. Draco read the wrong cell number. Damian has taken Ron somewhere else. They gave him to the Dementors and tossed his soulless body in the sea. 

“We have to go,” Harry says, grabbing Draco’s forearm. 

“No,” Draco says, looking wildly at Harry, “but—”

“He’s not here and we can’t stay,” Harry says. When Draco opens his mouth to argue, Harry cuts him off with, “The Dementors are going to start swarming soon. I can only do so much.” 

Harry practically drags Draco out of the cell and down the hall. He can’t believe they came all this way and went this far only to come up empty-handed. 

Hungry eyes follow them through their escape, reaching through the bars and crying for help, begging to be set free. 

Draco cringes away from the sight. Flashbacks of his father’s emaciated visage swim in this mind, brought to the surface by being here—by the sight of the cramped cells, by the smell of them, and the fingers of ice-cold despair that emanate from every inch of this place, tracing a cold line up his spine.

Harry has to cast another Patronus as they make their way back out of the prison, but the wash of warmth that comes from it can’t completely burn away the hopeless feeling sitting heavy in Draco’s chest.

More guards meet them along the way and try to stop their escape, but they are no match for the combination of he and Harry working together—of Harry’s sheer power and Draco’s finely tuned duelling skills. 

Rain pelts them and drenches their clothes as they make a break for the bike. Draco jumps on behind Harry as he kicks it to life and they rocket away from the island. Harry’s stag beats back the Dementors that try to give chase, and before long they are soaring over the sea, well out of harm’s way. 

As they make their escape, he doesn’t bother with an Umbrella Charm. Draco closes his eyes against the torrent and drops his forehead to the top of Harry’s back on his wet jacket.

When they make it back to the hotel, Harry orders them both large mugs of hot chocolate. They peel off their sodden clothes and curl up together under the covers, letting the cocoa warm them from the inside and ease the melancholy that hangs over them like a dark cloud. 

When Harry wakes Draco again with night terrors, Draco eases his sleep with a lullaby.

◊ ◊ ◊

When they call Hermione the next morning, they break the news of what happened at Azkaban. Hermione has to put the phone down for a minute to collect herself. Then she asks them about every detail of their break in, but ultimately they don’t know where Ron is.

His name was marked in the registry, but that could mean anything. It could mean he was taken there and then removed, or he is there still but not in his cell, or it could be forged to make it look like they brought him to Azkaban when really they killed him or took him somewhere else. 

“The attack was reported in The Prophet this morning,” Hermione tells them when she can’t stand speculating over Ron’s fate anymore. 

“What does it say about it?” Draco asks. 

“They’re spinning the story so it makes Damian look good. They printed that you two are terrorists and you were attempting to break out other dangerous criminals to set loose upon Britain, but that you were successfully thwarted by the Huntsmen.”

Draco rolls his eyes and sighs. Harry doesn’t seem that concerned about it, merely humming thoughtfully. 

“You said Damian’s men have been detaining people, right?” Harry asks out of the blue.

Draco furrows his brow and Hermione answers, “Yeah. People who go in for questioning and then disappear.” 

“Well, if he’s connected to the wizards I was—to the wizards Draco was investigating, then maybe those missing people are being given to the Dark wizards. They’re being trafficked or killed,” Harry reasons. “They aren’t being held in the Ministry’s holding cells? And they haven’t officially been sent to Azkaban?”

Harry glances at Draco in question, and Draco nods while Hermione answers, “Right.” 

“Then they must have somewhere else they’re keeping people. Maybe they took Ron there,” Harry says and looks to Draco. “Do you know where they were operating from?”

Draco frowns and shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so, not their main base. They kept a lot of information need-to-know. I worked in an old manor in Hastings, and I know of a couple other branches, but I would be surprised if they haven’t moved them all already.”

“Maybe we’ll check them out, to be sure, see if we can find any evidence,” Harry says. 

“And if they’ve already moved, how do we find where they’ve gone?” Hermione asks.

Harry shrugs. “Follow Damian. Follow the Dark wizards he works with. If they’re kidnapping and detaining people, as we’re pretty sure they are, then someone will eventually lead us there.” 

Draco doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He knows hope can be a dangerous thing, but if there’s a chance at finding Ron alive he will take it. Especially if it helps them find out more about what Damian has been up to. 

“Maybe you should talk to Luna. She’s been tailing him for a few weeks now.”

After they end the call, they start packing up their things and preparing to return to England. They are on the opposite end of Britain from Luna, and the trip is going to take all day, even flying. 

Draco watches Harry as he moves around the room, packing their clean clothes and toothbrushes and food. They barely spoke last night, too shaken from the trip to Azkaban and their failure to find Ron, so they still haven’t had a chance to talk about their fight. 

Harry seems more withdrawn this morning—less willing to reach for Draco. Draco is not sure if it’s because of their fight, from going to Azkaban, or just the general stress of the situation. 

Whatever the reason, Draco hates it. 

“Harry,” Draco says, lightly laying a hand on his arm to get his attention and stop him from shoving their clothes in his bag. 

Harry pauses and looks up at Draco with a question in his expression.

“I just—I want to apologise again, for the fight we had yesterday. For leaving you out of the planning process and, you know, being my usual prickish self,” Draco says awkwardly and rubs at his neck. He’s never been good at apologies or communicating his feelings, but Harry makes him want to try.

“It’s fine, I understand. I’m sorry for blowing up at you,” Harry says easily, but the lack of inflection in his tone makes Draco feel like it’s not actually fine. 

Draco leans in for a kiss, and Harry kisses him back but it’s chaste and over too quickly. 

“Come on, we need to get a move on if we’re going to get there before dark,” Harry says, throwing the saddlebags over his shoulder and turning away. 

Draco sighs. He takes down their wards and then follows after him. They check out of the hotel and Harry reattaches the bags to his motorbike.

The way Harry’s magic prickles around him, less steady than it usually feels when he is in complete control, worries Draco slightly. He’s not sure if Harry is still angry at him, or if he is upset about not saving Ron, or maybe it’s the thought of seeing Luna and potentially more of his old friends that has him agitated. 

Harry drives them out of the city before taking the bike up into the sky. Draco tries to keep Warming Charms up, but they don’t do much against the wind. 

A few hours pass before Draco directs them to the closest of the Trutina’s buildings that he knows of. They park a short distance from it and approach carefully on foot. 

Draco puts his wand up, feeling for the familiar wards they used, but none of them are active. He nods at Harry and they go inside the abandoned school building. 

It’s empty, cold, and dusty. Every room they look in has been cleared out and looks as if no one was here at all. 

Harry casts forensic spells testing for the presence of any recent magic used, but nothing comes of it. They likely abandoned this place as soon as Draco was unearthed as a spy, maybe even before then if they already suspected having a mole in their operation. 

Draco watches as Harry moves into a hall, the rooms of which look like they’ve been converted into prison cells. Their wands are the only source of light in the windowless, brick building. 

A shiver travels up Draco’s spine as he moves through the space, and Harry puts that feeling into words when he says, “There’s darkness here. Pain.”

Draco nods and swallows. He can feel it too. No amount of Scourgifies can scrub away the lingering echoes of Dark Magic. 

Harry runs a hand over a cell door, like he can feel the shadow of the occupant imprinted in it. Draco glances away and keeps pushing forward, moving the light from his wand back and forth, making shadows dance through the cells. 

When they get to the door at the end of the hall, Harry checks for traps or any other residual magic before pushing it open. 

The room is wide, with wood floors and broken chairs and tables pushed to the sides. The centre of the room is cleared out, and in it are three rings of runes circling each other stained in blood into the floor. 

The closer they get, the heavier Draco’s stomach feels with fear and disgust. It smells like old blood, and oozes with that familiar, sickly sensation of Dark Magic.

It looks exactly like the Dark rituals Harry found in his investigation all those years ago, which Draco viewed through his memories. 

“Tell me you see it too,” Harry says, his quiet voice echoing around the space. 

“I see it,” Draco whispers. “It’s real, Harry. You’re not dreaming.” 

Harry holds his hands in front of him, counting his fingers under his breath. Draco reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm to stop him and get him to meet Draco’s gaze. 

“It’s real,” Draco repeats. 

This is it, the last bit of proof Draco needs to know that Harry wasn’t hallucinating all those year ago and that their cases really are connected. 

They leave soon after. They find no evidence of where the Dark wizards would have moved to. 

Next, they stop at a warehouse Draco had heard of about thirty minutes away from the old school. From what he knew of it, it had been used for storing and moving shipments of various goods. It has been similarly cleaned out and they leave it empty-handed. 

The last place Draco knows to look is the old manse he had lived and worked in for the past three years. He knows it’s better to check than not, but he’s certain that it too will have been emptied out by now and he doubts they will find anything of interest there.

After leaving the warehouse, they stop for a late lunch, though neither of them feel especially hungry. They end up finding a small shop along the road that sells pasties and they sit at a table in front of the shop to eat. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Draco begins slowly, and Harry looks up at him from his lunch. “If we’re going looking for this...detainment centre, or wherever they may be keeping people. This could potentially be a big hit to Damian if we can prove he’s connected to it.”

Harry tongues his teeth and nods. “Sure.” 

“And what Hermione said about The Prophet twisting the story of our attack on Azkaban, using it as propaganda for him got me thinking that we’re going to need someone on our side who can report on whatever evidence we find,” Draco reasons. “We’re the two most wanted men in Wizarding Britain—for treason, even. No one is going to believe anything we say.”

Harry nods again. “So, who? Luna?” he asks. “How’s the reputation of The Quibbler these days?”

Draco winces. “There’s a little less nonsense, but it’s still The Quibbler.”

“Who then? You want to bring Hermione along?”

“No, she’s too public a figure, plus her connection to Ron would make anything she says suspect,” Draco says. “No, we need someone with a long-standing career as a reporter. Someone who already has a massive readership. A hardened journalist who would be willing to face any danger for a juicy article, but who can stay out of the way and remain undetected.”

The more Draco says, the darker Harry’s expression gets. He’s frowning and furrowing his brows by the end, looking none too happy about what Draco is suggesting. 

“I want to make a pit-stop and talk to Skeeter first before we go out to Hastings or meet with Luna.”

“You want to trust Skeeter with this?” Harry asks incredulously. “Every other word out of that woman’s mouth is a lie. She writes nothing but gutter press.” 

“Really? Ron once said he thought she actually got a lot right in that biography she wrote on you…” Draco hedges. 

Harry gives him a stormy glare for it. 

“She’s the only journalist out there with big enough bollocks to publish an exposé on Damian. Especially since he got her fired from The Prophet after she wrote a not so flattering article on him. If we want to clear our names, it can’t just be about finding Ron and hoping we stumble across a connection to Damian along the way. We need someone who can expose him to the whole world.”

Harry’s lip curls up briefly, but he nods his agreement. 

After they finish their lunch, Draco tells him to head for Surrey, and then they’re off again.

They fly for a few more hours before Harry finds a good spot to bring the bike down onto a Muggle road. Draco directs Harry on how to find Skeeter’s house in a little village, and by the time they arrive the sun has dipped below the horizon and the sky is awash in pinks and oranges.

Harry parks down the street and they walk up to the cottage side-by-side. Draco stands behind Harry and glances around the neighbourhood warily while Harry rings the doorbell. The door is pulled open almost within seconds.

“Harry Potter, as I live and breathe,” Rita says with a venomous smile. 

Draco steps around Harry and Rita’s eyes widen at the sight of him.

“And Draco Malfoy. My, my, my,” she purrs, squinting suspiciously as her eyes dart between them. “They said the Boy Who Lived was running around with a Death Eater, but I didn’t believe it. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised, considering your history, hm, Harry?”

“Skeeter, lovely to see you,” Draco says with forced cordiality. “May we come in?”

Rita eyes them a moment longer, then she steps aside and gestures them in. 

After shutting the door behind them and leading them in to her sitting room, she asks, “Tea?”

“No,” is Harry’s immediate and brusque answer. 

Draco glances at him, and then answers with a more polite, “No, thank you.”

Rita makes tea for herself anyway, then takes a seat in an armchair, and Harry and Draco take the loveseat opposite it. Rita has clearly aged like a witch who is trying hard not to age. She has deep lines around her mouth and eyes, but her skin looks like it’s been spelled taut trying to get rid of the wrinkles, and her face is caked with a thick layer of makeup. Her hair is still bright blonde, but there is a hint of grey showing through her roots. 

Draco notes the bony look to her hands, and the age spots on them as she pours herself a cup of tea. Her nails are painted a red so dark they look nearly black. Her glasses are thicker than Draco remembers but they are similar frames studded with rhinestones, and she’s wearing a set of velvet green robes. 

“So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” Rita asks, eyes moving between them and then landing on Harry. She eyes his long hair and his beard, then her eyes travel down his form, taking in his clothes and general appearance. “Come to add a part two to the biography, Harry?”

Harry’s fist clenches over his knee and his magic shifts around him. Draco puts a hand over his fist to calm him, and Rita’s sharp gaze zeroes in on the gesture. 

Draco answers for Harry, “No, actually. We’ve come to give you something better.”

“How intriguing,” Rita leers, looking at them over her cat-eye glasses with a dangerous twinkle in her eye. She twirls her wand and summons a roll of parchment and an acid-green quill which immediately begins to write. “A tale of two star crossed lovers, then? The Death Eater’s son and the fallen hero. Once enemies, now finding illicit passion in each other’s arms and a shared mission to take down the society that shunned them?” 

The parchment erupts into flames and Rita jumps back with a shriek. She watches the quill and paper turn to ash. 

Draco has to bite back a grin as she purses her lips and crisply brushes the ash from the arm of her chair. Harry turns his hand palm up and they lace their fingers together. Draco darts a glance over to him and it looks like Harry is fighting a similar battle not to laugh.

Rita tuts and turns a wary look on them, first at Draco and then her gaze stops on Harry, assessing him more carefully. “Well?” she asks curtly. “What do you want, then?”

“Damian,” Draco says, schooling his features. “You want a story that bleeds? How about the Acting Minister for Magic, and the supposed biggest advocate for the Anti-Dark Arts movement is involved with an organisation of Dark witches and wizard, maybe even leading it.”

Rita’s eyes skate away from Harry to land on Draco. “I know,” she says flatly. 

Draco almost chokes on his next breath of air. “You _know?_ ”

“Of course,” she says, tapping her long nails on the arm of her chair and crossing her legs. “After that pissant got me fired from The Prophet for writing about all the witches and wizards who take issue with him mysteriously disappearing, I looked into it further, naturally.”

Rita takes a moment to pick up her teacup and take a sip, and Draco wants to smack the cup from her hand and tell her to get on with it. He leans forward a little bit as Rita sets her cup down and licks her lips.

“I spent a long time tracking his movements, his investments, his properties, so forth. He’s decent at covering his tracks, but not perfect. Many of the insipid lackeys he has following him about do believe he’s cleansing our society of the Dark Arts, but once you look a little higher up in rank you start to see some interesting backgrounds in his Huntsmen.” 

“Criminal backgrounds?” Draco asks.

“Not necessarily, not with his more public associates. But many of them have marks on their school records for playing with spells they shouldn’t have,” Rita says with a pleased little smirk. “And if you look at the witches and wizards _those_ ones are associating with, then you start to see a pattern of criminals working for the men working for Damian.”

“Have you found anything that links them directly?” Draco asks eagerly. 

“Well, there’s no money trail if that’s what you mean,” Rita demurs and picks up her cup to take another slow sip of her tea. 

“But?” Draco prompts impatiently. 

Rita looks at them over her teacup, her eyes moving over Draco and Harry in a calculating manner that sets Draco’s nerves on edge. 

She sets her cup back on its saucer and says, “Why do you want to know?”

Draco grinds his teeth and then forces a smile. “Because that tyrant is turning Wizarding Britain into a military state? Because he’s illegally detaining dissidents and Purebloods in a crusade that feels all too reminiscent of the last war? Because he just sent the Head Auror to prison on false charges? All of the above?”

Rita hums, unimpressed. “No. I mean, why do you, Draco Malfoy, a Dark wizard who allegedly murdered the Minister and has lived outside the law nearly your entire life, care that our Acting Minister is tied to the Dark Arts? And why would Harry Potter, who hasn’t been seen in the Wizarding World in eighteen years, show up now out of the blue for this?”

Draco sighs impatiently. “Because I’m pretty sure Damian is responsible for Shacklebolt’s death and he’s trying to pin it on me. I’d really like it if I could clear my name and not spend the rest of my life running and hiding, living like a Muggle.”

“Ron wasn’t in Azkaban. He’s either dead or they took him somewhere else, and we’re going to find him,” Harry says abruptly. 

Draco glances to him and finds that there’s a dark look in Harry’s eyes. His magic is roiling more heavily, and Draco squeezes his hand and moves his other to rub at Harry’s forearm, trying to calm him. 

When Draco looks back to Rita, she looks tense and cagey as she watches Harry. Draco can’t blame her, the way Harry said what he said makes it sound like a threat, and surely she can feel the wild magic churning around him. 

“I might have information that can help you, but I want something in return,” she says cautiously.

Draco scoffs out an incredulous laugh. “We’re giving you the story of a lifetime, and you want _more_ from us?”

“You’re not giving me anything, I already knew that Damian is not the guileless champion of morality that he purports to be,” she snaps back.

“Then why haven’t you published your massive exposé yet?” Draco asks pointedly and raises an eyebrow. “Surely you, Rita Skeeter, wouldn’t sit on your hands when you have such a shocking story of moral depravity and corruption at the highest levels of our society?”

She narrows her eyes at Draco and her long fingernails tap an irritated rhythm onto her teacup. 

“Unless...you don’t have any solid evidence to connect him with, yet? You haven’t been able to prove that he’s involved with any of these disappearances, or that these criminal types hanging about his henchmen have anything to do with him?”

Rita purses her lips, sips her tea and says, “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Which we want to blow wide open, just for you,” Draco says smarmily, and Rita gives him a tight-lipped smile. “We’re going after Damian and the Trutina, whether you’re there or not. But it would be nice to have you reporting on any evidence we find.”

“Because you’re both wanted for treason and the Wizengamot would throw you in Azkaban before listening to a word you say about Damian,” Rita points out. “My exposé could mention Damian’s false allegations toward you and the wrongful imprisonment of Mr. Weasley. I’m sure it would go a long way toward clearing your names.”

Draco sighs. “Fine. What do you want?”

“How about the rest of the story, Harry?” Rita’s gaze moves back to Harry with a distinctly hungry look to it. “The world so wants to know where you went and what happened to their long-lost saviour. Are you clean now? What’s wrong with your magic? How long have you been romantically involved with Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco can tell by the tight look on Harry’s face, and the way he is trying to school it into something more neutral that Harry is not at all comfortable. 

“Absolutely not,” Draco intervenes before Harry can explode. “You’re lucky we don’t sue the pants off you for the first unauthorised biography.”

Rita tuts, then waves it away dismissively. “How about an interview then? On the nature and history of you and Harry’s relationship?”

It’s somewhat better, but Draco still doesn’t like the idea of Rita writing an article on them. He looks at Harry curiously, and finds confirmation in Harry’s stormy expression that he is not on board with that either.

“No,” Draco answers for them.

Rita huffs and purses her lips. “Then an interview on how you two came to be involved in all this? With just a small, teensy-weensy update on your relationship status.”

Draco’s eyes narrow as he assesses the proposal. It would blow his cover to the rest of the world, but then maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all this Draco doesn’t want to go back to undercover work, and maybe it’s time the Wizarding World is informed of everything he’s done for them. 

Draco glances at Harry in question, and Harry meets his gaze for a second. His lips thin in discontent, but he tips his head in a short and sharp gesture of agreement. 

“Fine, we’ll give an interview about the case,” Draco concedes. 

“Fantastic,” Rita says around a shark’s smile. 

“Tell us what you know,” Harry butts in roughly. 

Rita’s eyes dart to him anxiously, and Draco doesn’t blame her. If he didn’t know Harry better, Draco would think he sounds like he’s about to drag out the iron maiden to get Rita to talk.

“There are several buildings around the country that his men go to. Having meetings, moving mysterious shipments in and out of them. I got a look in one shipment before it went in and it seemed like illegal potions ingredients,” Rita says. “Damian never seems to be present during the handling of those though, and I’ve checked the records and none of the buildings are listed under any ownership or cleared for any of the wards they have on them.”

“Fine, we’ll want to know where they are anyway,” Draco says. “Do any of those places seem like somewhere they would detain people? Somewhere...off the grid? Away from the public’s eye.”

“There is one place, which some of the less savoury wizards working under him frequent,” she begins thoughtfully. “It’s deeper in the country and well hidden.” 

Draco tilts his head curiously. “How did you find it?”

“Damian side-alonged me, naturally,” Rita says, as if it should be obvious, and Draco quirks an eyebrow up at her. “Only he didn’t notice the beetle on his robes. It was quite by accident that he revealed the property to me.”

“What was it?” Draco asks.

“I’m not sure. It’s an abandoned church, but it has some very strong wards around it and I wasn’t able to get inside.” Rita lifts a hand palm-up in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of gesture.

Draco glances over at Harry, who says, “That’s probably what we’re looking for. We can get past the wards.” 

“You said Damian went there?” Draco asks thoughtfully, looking back to Rita and she gives him a nod. “Does Damian go there frequently?”

“Once a month, not always on the same date, but always on the night of a waxing crescent moon. I thought it was strange, once I realised.”

Harry gives Draco a look heavy with meaning. “He’s killing them,” he says quietly. “The victims, they always died on the waxing crescent.” 

Draco’s heart speeds a little with the realisation. Damian isn’t just involved with the Trutina, he may be the one who has been murdering witches and wizards all these years and stealing their magic for—for Merlin knows what. He may be the Magnate.

Draco glances out the window at the dark sky, looking for the moon but not being able to see it from this angle. “Is it…?”

“Tonight,” Harry finishes with a nod.

“It is,” Rita confirms, and glances over to a clock on her mantle. “Usually he gets there around nine, and it’s half-past now. Did you say that Damian’s been killing people?” 

“Yes, possibly, maybe. Fuck, we don’t know, but we need to get there,” Draco says, jumping up and Harry follows him to his feet. “Where is it? Where’s the church?” 

“Up in the Yorkshire Dales, tucked on one of the crags.”

“Fuck,” Draco curses. “There’s no time, that’s too far. We need to stop him now.”

“I can side-along you,” Rita offers. “Let me get my things.” 

Draco glances nervously to Harry, whose energy is still a little too erratic for Draco’s liking. Especially if they’re need to get through an apparition without getting splinched. 

“Relax, love. You’ll be alright. Centre yourself,” Draco encourages him, rubbing a hand up and down Harry’s arm and nodding when he feels his magic start to settle. “This will all be over soon.”

A muscle jumps in Harry’s jaw and his expression is grim, but he gives a curt nod of acknowledgement. Draco reasons that he’s probably just feeling as nervous as Draco is. 

He knows this is a stupid idea to go rushing in themselves, but there’s no time. If Damian is going to kill another person tonight they can’t let that happen, especially if it could be Ron. 

Draco feels the usual anxiety and uncertainty when anticipating a fight, especially one where they will likely be outnumbered, but he’s ready for this. He’s excited. _Finally_ an opportunity to expose Damian for who he is and shut the books on the case that’s been years in the works—and the case that’s haunted Harry for even longer. 

Gods bless Rita Skeeter, the nosy old hag. 

Draco can’t help the thrill that goes through him at all the potential. The potential to return home, to clear his own name not just of recent allegations but of an entire life of unsavoury choices, and to bring Harry back into their world and back to his family.

It’s nerve-wracking, but Draco thinks that maybe, finally, he deserves a bit of happiness, just as Harry does, and they can build it together. They’ve both been alone for so long, but they can find companionship and family in each other. 

“Send a message to Hermione, I don’t know that she’ll find us in time, but we can’t wait,” Draco says and Harry nods. 

Harry licks his lips and hesitates. He closes his eyes and casts his Patronus. The stag emerges from his wand, bright and pulsing with warmth and joy. It faces Harry, and he gives it the message for Hermione of where they’re going and why before the stag turns and disappears out of the house. 

Draco turns his gaze back to Harry, unable to help the nervous but excited smile that slips onto his face. Harry looks tense, like he’s trying to hold it together, and he must be so worried for Ron.

“Don’t worry, we’ll save him,” Draco says, just as much a reassurance to himself as it is to Harry. He has to believe that they’ll find Ron, he can’t think of the alternative. “And we’ll throw Damian behind bars and tear his whole organisation apart, once and for all.”

Harry nods stiffly and doesn’t meet Draco’s eyes. “Then you can return to your life. Your ordeal will be over.”

“We can return to the Wizarding World,” Draco adds softly. 

“What ‘we’?” Harry asks, his tone lacking any inflection and his eyes flat when they turn to meet Draco’s. 

Draco’s heart drops like a stone. 

His lips part in surprise, but he’s not drawing any breath. His eyes are jumping between Harry’s, trying to read something, anything, in his blank expression—trying to comprehend what Harry is saying. 

“You mean that…” Draco begins when he finds the breath to speak again, icy worry trickling down his spine. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are going to return to the Wizarding World,” Harry says plainly, which doesn’t help at all.

“But what about...what about this? What about us?” Draco forces the words out while his gut twists itself up into painful knots.

“You know this was never long-term,” Harry says, and the words feel like a physical blow that has Draco dropping Harry’s hand and stepping back. “It was only ever a temporary solution for you.”

Draco’s chest feels like it’s collapsing in on his lungs and heart, which is beating a brutal rhythm against his breastbone. “But—” he tries to argue, but the words get all caught in his throat.

“You hate living Muggle, but that’s my life.”

Draco feels like he’s talking to a stranger. Surely this isn’t the same Harry he has shared so much affection and intimacy with. Surely this isn’t the same Harry who worshipped Draco’s body, who told him he was perfect, who made him feel like he was worth something.

“Then—then we make it work,” Draco says, his thoughts scrabbling for purchase just as his fingers scrabble to get a grip on Harry’s jacket. 

Harry’s lips thin. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You don’t even want to try? Is it not worth it to you?” Draco asks desperately, his tone ratcheting up. 

Harry looks down, sighs quietly through his nose and doesn’t answer.

Draco licks his lips and swallows heavily. “Am I not worth it?”

Harry looks up at him, the skin around his eyes pinched with tension. His mouth opens to respond, but then his gaze shifts to Rita as she enters the room and his mouth snaps shut. Draco’s stomach roils with nausea. 

Harry’s silence is damning. 

Draco’s skin prickles with flashes of hot and cold running over it. It feels too tight across his bones, and he’s not sure he’s getting enough air because his throat is closing. A swell of emotion is bubbling up, threatening to spill over, and he desperately fights down the sensation. 

When he looks to Rita, she is giving them both a calculating look, and Draco can’t stand the thought of what she sees there. 

“Let’s go,” he forces the words out harshly. He grabs Harry’s arm and holds the other hand out for Rita to take. “Harry’s magic is a bit wild. You’ll need to make sure you’re focusing carefully on the destination and keeping connected with us on the ride so as not to splinch us.”

She takes in the information with an intrigued expression, but then she nods and Disapparates. 

The ride is nearly painful with how hard it is to keep hold of Harry. He tries to focus and help Rita get them there safely, he tries to concentrate on bringing Harry and all his wild magic with them, but there is a small part of him that wants to let go. Now that Harry has shattered his world, part of him can’t stand touching him for a second longer. 

When they land, Draco stumbles a step and takes a moment to right himself. He drops Harry’s arm and Rita’s hand, and he looks over to see Rita staring at Harry a bit wide-eyed. Clearly she wasn’t prepared for him. At least they don’t seem injured from the turbulent ride. 

Draco looks away and takes in their surroundings. They’re in the rolling hills of the Yorkshire Dales, about halfway up a crag. A small stream is rushing nearby, moving down the rock face in steps of little waterfalls. A sharp wind is blowing around them, cutting right through Draco’s clothes and sending a chill down his spine. The only light is from that of the sliver of the moon in the sky, the stars, and some Muggle buildings in the distance.

“Where is it?” Draco asks, getting Rita’s attention. He’s actively trying to push his emotions down and compartmentalise his breakdown for later so he can deal with the situation at hand.

She blinks and looks at him, then turns and points farther up the crag. “There. Hidden behind wards, you’ll have to get closer and get the wards down to see it.”

Harry nods and then starts moving on a deer trail up the crag next to the stream. Draco follows behind him and Rita brings up the rear. Draco gets his wand in hand and keeps his gaze moving around the area. 

They don’t see any guards hanging about outside, and Draco wonders if they are not expecting anyone to find this place or if they are just that cocky. 

When they get closer, Harry stops and casts an Anti-Apparition Jinx around the area. Then he lifts his wand to feel out what wards are around and he begins tearing them down. 

Draco glances at Rita, who winks at him and then shrinks down into a beetle. He watches at first, then turns his gaze back to its patrol of the area. 

As the wards start to fall, an old, large stone church becomes visible, tucked up on a ledge along the crag ahead of them. It takes a few more minutes before Harry gets all the defensive wards down and he moves forward to enter the church. 

A flick of his wand sends the doors flying open, and a shocked looking wizard standing a few feet in stares open-mouthed and not at all expecting their entrance. 

The wizard recovers quickly and reaches for his wand, but Harry is already sending a hex at him that hits the wizard right in the chest and knocks him back into the far wall. Draco swallows, glancing at Harry and feeling somewhat uneasy from the hard expression on his face.

Harry’s magic is heavy and charged, and it puts a metallic taste in Draco’s mouth. To look at him though, Harry appears completely in control, and he is not setting off any wild sparks of magic around him. 

They step into the atrium of the old church, barely getting a couple feet in before movement in the corner of Draco’s eye catches his attention and he sees a witch in one of the doorways raising her wand to them. Draco shields them from the curse and then counters with a Stunner. 

The witch dodges his spell by ducking into the doorway, but Harry follows with a Confringo that blasts the doorway apart and the explosive spell sends her sprawling to the floor unconscious. Blood dribbles out of her mouth as they step over her body and Draco furrows his brow, worried by Harry’s brutality, though he can’t deny the swift and effective methods. 

Stepping into the nave of the church is like stepping into a nightmare. It’s been converted into a prison the likes of which the Inquisition would have been proud. The walls are lined with iron bars transfigured right into the old stone, and when Draco lights his wand with a whispered, “Lumos,” it spotlights the hollow faces and reflected eyes of men and women held in the cells. 

A shiver travels up Draco’s spine to see them there, staring back at him from the dark. Most of them look emaciated and injured in some way, and they’re all manacled to the floor or wall.

Harry keeps moving forward, looking down the rows of cells. There is some light coming from the end of the nave, which is set apart from the rest of the church by what looks like a sort of partition or conjured wall. 

When the light from his wand flashes over a head of red hair, Draco’s heart jumps into his throat and he rushes to the cell, forgetting everything else. 

“Ron?” Draco exclaims, shining the light into the cell and illuminating the lanky man. 

Ron squints against the brightness of the light, and he looks terrible but he’s here and he’s alive and Draco’s whole body floods with relief at the sight of him. 

“Draco?” Ron asks, voice coming out rough and slurred. 

Draco steps back to cast an Alohomora at the cell door, then grabs it and yanks it open. He hurries into the cell and drops to his knees next to Ron, delicately pressing a hand to the side of Ron’s face and feeling his clammy skin. 

“Are you alright?” Draco asks and Ron huffs out wry laugh, which is a relief to hear and enough of an answer for Draco. “I’m going to get you out of here.” 

“There’s more,” Ron says raggedly, needing to swallow to try and wet his palate. From the slurring, Draco gets the impression they might have drugged him. “There’s more of ‘em. Damian—”

“It’s alright, we know, we’ve got it,” Draco assures him as he casts another Unlocking Charm at the manacles shackling Ron’s wrists to the floor. 

“We?” Ron asks blearily, and Draco glances up to him to answer that Harry is here too, but then he sees Ron’s eyes move over Draco’s shoulder. He sees the way they widen, and his hand lifts up to point and he tries to warn him with a shouted, “Draco!”

But Draco barely registers it all before pain lances up his back. He falls forward onto his hands with a cry, then grits his teeth and turns over to see Roberts standing over them in the doorway to the cell. The hateful twist of his expression is magnified by the bright light and angle of Draco’s wand on the floor. 

“Fucking cunt,” Roberts spits down at him. “I should have slit your throat while you were sleeping. I so hoped I’d be the one to find you.” 

He raises his wand to cast again, and Draco’s fingers scrabble over the stone floor. They close around his wand just in time to get a shield up and block the jet of flames that pour from Roberts’ wand at Ron and Draco. It lights up the dark space with a bright orange light, sending shadows and inmates scattering. 

Draco can feel the hot, sticky sensation of blood seeping down his back, but that and the pain recede to the far corners on his mind as his heart wildly pumps adrenaline through his system and he becomes solely focused on the duel in front of him. 

Draco holds the shield up and pushes himself to standing, pressing his magic forward until Roberts has to cut off the Conflagration Spell or risk burning himself. Roberts steps back and casts a Confringo that Draco deflects to the ceiling, the space flashing with the explosion of it and creating a short storm of dust falling around them. 

Roberts fires off a Reducto which Draco shields and then aims a Galcius at the floor beneath his feet. It makes Roberts slip and Draco immediately follows it up with an Incarcerous, but Roberts catches himself on a knee and Incendios the ropes before they can wrap around him. 

Draco aims a Stupefy at him, and in the split second that Roberts is shielding, Draco aims a transfiguration spell on the bars of the cell next to him and turns them to snakes. Roberts tries to jerk away and get his wand up, but the vipers strike at him and sink their fangs into his arm. 

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Draco casts, snatching Roberts’ wand out of the air when it comes flying at him, and then he follows it up with, “ _Incarcerous._ ” 

Roberts has no way to escape the ropes as they twist around his body and bind him tightly. He falls to the ground spitting curses and with a flick of Draco’s wand, one of the ropes twists around his mouth, effectively silencing him. 

As soon as that’s done, Draco releases a ragged breath, and returns to Ron’s cell.

“Fuck, mate. Are you alright? You’re bleeding,” Ron tells him. 

“I’m fine, I’m alright,” Draco reassures him as he unlocks the shackles around Ron’s feet. Ron looks pale and weak and when he helps him stand, Draco sees that his shirt is stained with blood. He grits his teeth and ignores the pain coursing up his back as he supports Ron.

“Draco!” he hears Hermione’s voice calling from the atrium. 

“Here!” he calls back, relieved to see Hermione and backup in the form of Luna and several Aurors. “Help me, he’s injured. And we need to unchain these people and get them to St Mungo’s.” 

Hermione rushes into the cell with them and takes over care of Ron while the Aurors start unlocking the cells. 

As Draco looks around he realises then that Harry is missing from them all, and he got too caught up in Ron and his duel to notice. 

Draco leaves the cell and races down the length of the nave, then he ducks around the conjured wall separating it from the chancel. As soon as he does, Harry’s magic hits him almost like a blow to the face. 

The space is densely filled with the electric current of wild magic, and a glance around shows him multiple wizards sprawled across the floor, unconscious. 

Draco looks up and sees Harry in the apse, his hair and clothing whipping around him from the torrent of magic circling and crackling around him. On the altar is the freshest victim, dead and dripping blood and circled with Dark runes.

Across from him is another wizard, Draco thinks it might be Damian but it’s hard to tell with the distance. They’re talking, but Draco can’t hear it over the rushing and crackling of Harry’s magic.

The air thickens, and it smells like smoke and tastes like lightning, and in that moment, Draco sees Harry’s future and he sees his past. He sees him back as an Auror, hunting the wizard who was kidnapping people and then killing him by accident. He sees how that momentary loss of control was the catalyst that made his life collapse, and he sees how Harry will never recover if it happens a second time. 

Harry’s right, he is an atom bomb, and he’s about to explode. The smart thing to do would run away, to save his own hide, but the idea only registers in Draco’s mind for the briefest moment, and then his knees are coming up, and his feet are pushing him forward, and he’s yelling Harry’s name and telling him to stop. 

As soon as he’s within range, Draco grabs for Harry. The last thing he sees are Harry’s eyes widening in surprise, and then everything goes white.


	14. Chapter 14

The first sense that greets Draco is the pungent and peculiar smell of potions. The potent mixture of strong herbs compete with each other as they scrape their way up Draco’s sinuses. 

Draco huffs a breath out his nose, trying to rid himself of the smell. His mouth is dry when he tries to swallow, and he runs his tongue around his mouth and wets his lips. His eyes open slowly, blinking away the fog over them and adjusting to the light in the room. 

As he looks around, Draco comes to realise that he is in St Mungo’s and now recognises the familiar, medicinal smell of herbs and potions. His hospital room is empty, which is also a familiar sight. 

When he tries to shift on the hospital bed, Draco becomes aware of the way his whole body aches with muted pain. His limbs feel heavy and slow to respond, and his head feels like it’s filled with soggy oatmeal. 

He must be on a heavy dose of pain potions and he wonders what exactly happened and how long he has been here for. A cursory check tells him that all his limbs are whole and where they should be, so at least there’s that.

Draco reaches over his bed and flips the switch that will call a Healer to his room. He doesn’t have to wait long before a short, young, brown-haired witch wearing the eye-bleedingly bright green Healer robes comes bustling in.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy. I’m Healer Morgan,” she greets him cordially. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit of pain,” Draco answers as the Healer casts a few diagnostic spells over him. “Thirsty, mainly. Can I get a glass of water, please?”

“Of course.” When the Healer finishes her assessment, she conjures a cup of water for him and then asks, “Do you know where you are?”

“St Mungo’s,” he answers and then drinks eagerly from the glass.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

At that question Draco has to pause and think. He remembers getting hit in the back with something and bleeding a lot. He remembers duelling, and then...Harry.

It all comes back to Draco in a rush. Meeting with Skeeter, his fight with Harry, Harry breaking up with him, going to the church, finding Ron, his duel with Roberts, and Harry...Harry on the verge of going nuclear and Draco jumping in front of him like some sort of altruistic imbecile.

“I...I know I was hit in the back with a hex,” Draco begins slowly. “And then...something else, I’m not sure.” 

“Yes, the lacerations on your back were deep but not serious. They healed well,” Healer Morgan explains. “You’ve been asleep for nearly three days after you were hit with a wave of very powerful magic. It shattered many of your bones, ruptured...”

Draco zones out as the Healer explains his injuries and his treatment. His eyes lose focus and then hone in on a loose thread sticking out of his hospital blanket. 

He remembers Harry’s eyes, alight with power and wide with shock. He remembers Harry’s magic pouring out of him like a monsoon. He remembers grabbing onto Harry, like trying to hold lightning. 

“...Mr. Malfoy?” The Healer’s voice comes back into focus. “Mr. Malfoy, did you hear me?”

“Yes. I was hit by a large shockwave of magic, which caused massive internal damage and I’ve been asleep for three days,” Draco parrots back at her, pulling his eyes off the loose thread to meet her gaze.

She studies him in concerned silence, then nods and continues, “It’s a great sign that you’ve woken up, but we’d like to keep you here for a while longer. Your body is still healing from the attack. It’s possible your magical core was damaged. For now, please do not use any magic—”

The sound of the door to his private hospital room opening draws Draco’s attention away from the Healer. For a second Draco’s heart rises in hope and anticipation, then Ron turns the corner. He gives Draco a wide smile, which Draco hesitantly returns. 

“Mr. Weasley,” the Healer greets him then looks back to Draco. “The Head Auror here has been very anxious for you to wake up. Perhaps now he’ll stop hounding me.”

Ron looks a bit sheepish, and Draco snorts.

“Anyway, in a day or two, once your body is a little stronger, we will test your magic. Early diagnostics look good though, and we don’t believe there should be any lasting damage. Do you have any questions?”

“No, thank you,” Draco says shortly.

“Alright. I’ll be back to administer your potions in an hour. You said there was a bit of pain? I can up your dosage a little.”

“No,” Draco says quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”

The Healer pauses, then nods and leaves.

Draco dislikes the way the potions fog his mind, and he doesn’t want his pain to be numbed. The longer Draco is conscious and remembering what happened with him and Harry, the more he wants to have the pain. He wants to feel every inch of it in his body so that maybe the physical pain of what Harry did to him will drown out the emotional pain Harry left.

“Good to see you’re finally awake,” Ron says, moving to his bedside. “Did you get enough beauty sleep?”

Draco makes a half-hearted laugh, but it’s hard to feel much outside of the deep ache twisting in his chest. He tries valiantly to put aside thoughts of Harry. 

Draco hates that he hoped for even a second that Harry would be here. He probably fled back to his sad little Muggle life right after he dropped them off at St Mungo’s.

Draco tries to switch his attention and looks Ron over with a critical eye. “Are you alright?” he asks Ron. 

“Yeah, I’m alright. I checked out of here two days ago,” Ron says easily. “Those arseholes stuck a knife in my kidney, but the Healers patched me up.”

Draco shakes his head. “Yes, well. You’re welcome for saving your arse.”

“About bloody time too, seems like I’m always the one doing the saving.”

“As if, Weasley,” Draco shoots back. 

For a brief second, he gets caught up in the familiar teasing, and in that tiny moment his heart doesn’t ache. And then it’s back.

“What happened with the case? Was Damian there?” Draco asks.

“Right, yeah,” Ron says, eyes widening when he realises Draco doesn’t know any of what’s been going on. “Yeah, bloody Damian. Except he’s not actually Damian. You know who he is?” 

Draco frowns and shakes his head. 

“He’s Ellis. Richard Ellis, that wizard Harry was charged with killing all those years back. Only, Harry didn’t kill him apparently. He maimed him pretty horribly, you should see his real face.”

Ron makes an expression of disgust, and Draco’s mouth tips open and his brow furrows as he tries to absorb this information.

“So this asshole fakes his death, steals the identity of a young Ministry worker, prosecutes Harry for his own fake death, and then builds his Dark Arts empire off it.” 

Draco’s heart twists with the information, and he can’t believe how much damage this wizard did to Harry’s life. Draco hates that all he can think about is Harry, who thought he’d betrayed himself and his deepest held beliefs that day and lived every day since then believing that he’s a monster—that he’s dangerous to anyone around him.

“So what’s happening with him? Is he in jail? Do we know what he was doing there with those prisoners?” Draco asks.

“Yes, Damian is in Azkaban now, until the trial. Which is going to take a long time, especially since no, Damian isn’t talking. We’re still trying to figure it all out. His Huntsmen have been dismantled and arrested, most of the Wizengamot have been forced to resign their posts pending further investigation. We’ve got most of his guys locked up, and thanks to Skeeter’s investigation we’ve raided four more of their operations.” 

Draco would whistle, if his mouth weren’t still so dry. “You’ve been busy.”

Ron nods. “You know who’s Acting Minister now?” he asks with a small, impish smile.

“Who?” Draco asks warily. “Hermione?”

“Merlin, no. She said that’s the last thing she wants,” Ron says and shakes his head. “No, the current Acting Minister is Percy.”

“ _Percy?_ ” Draco exclaims. “Oh, Merlin. He must be acting a right tit.”

Ron laughs. “You know he is. Marching about, saying, ‘Oh well you’ll have to schedule that through my assistant,’ and, ‘I’ve got a very important meeting with So-and-So,’ and, ‘I am a very busy man now that I’m Acting Minister, I don’t have all day to sit about eating tarts,’ ” Ron says, impersonating his brother’s imperious tone and haughty expression.

Draco laughs, easily conjuring the image of Percy prancing about importantly. Then his smile slowly fades and he comments, “He must be so chuffed.”

“Of course he is. It’s what he always wanted, and if he handles this situation well, then he’ll be sure to get to elected,” Ron says. “He’s been an annoying tit about it, but at least he dropped the charges against me and reinstated me as Head Auror as soon as he saw the evidence against Damian.” 

Draco nods and gives a tight smile. “That is good.”

“So, I’ve got some not-so-great news as well,” Ron begins slowly. 

Draco wasn’t sure his heart could sink any lower, but it does. “What is it?”

“Because of the allegations against you with Kingsley’s murder, we have to keep a tracker on you. I have to inform you that you are not allowed to leave London until after this mess is over and your name is officially cleared.”

Draco’s brows furrow. Honestly, he expected worse. “You’re not going to keep me in a holding cell? Or on house arrest at the very least?”

“No. Percy wanted to do it all by the book, but I talked him down. Since it was Damian who made the accusation and since it was you who saved me and all the other prisoners, I got him to agree to just the tracker. Especially since throwing our new hero in jail wouldn’t reflect too well on him.”

Draco quirks a questioning eyebrow up at Ron, and Ron pulls a folded newspaper from his robes and hands it over.

Draco unfolds the paper to find the front cover of The Prophet splashed with photos of Ron’s rescue and an enormous title about Damian being found to be a Dark wizard.

Draco skims over the article by Rita and looks at all the photos. There’s a photo of Draco supporting Ron and handing him off to Hermione, several photos of Hermione, Luna and the Aurors releasing prisoners and getting them out of their cells, a photo of the bloody altar and another of Damian getting arrested.

Draco stops when he comes across a photo of Harry. He’s carrying Draco’s limp body out of the church, his face is twisted in anguish. Draco is covered in blood and it’s dripping from his mouth, eternally caught in the loop of the photo.

Draco’s gut twists and he swallows hard to fight back the surge of emotions constricting his throat and turning his eyes watery.

Ron is quiet while Draco looks through the article, then after a moment he says, “Harry is here too, if you want to see him.”

Draco’s gaze jumps up to Ron’s. He swallows again and nods sharply, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

Ron leaves the room briefly and comes back with Harry following behind him. The room fills with the familiar, heavy sensation of Harry’s magic, and Draco ignores the way it gives him goosebumps.

Draco is not sure what he expects. Part of him lights up at the sight of Harry and wants him to come rushing to Draco’s side with apologies and tender kisses. The other part of Draco wants to hex him—it wants to hurt him and make him feel some of the pain Draco is feeling right now. 

The longer Harry stands there, blank-faced and not saying anything, the louder the latter part gets. 

Initially, Harry’s gaze moves over Draco’s form in a concerned manner, but then his eyes meets Draco’s and there’s nothing of what Draco wants to see in them. There’s no affection, no desire, no worry. There’s a bit of guilt, but it’s not for breaking up with Draco the way he did—it’s from putting Draco in the hospital.

“You’re here,” Draco notes with mild surprise, breaking the silence.

Harry nods.

Draco furrows his brow and wets his lips, trying to not let hope get the better of him. “I didn’t think you would stay.”

Harry’s eyes dart away briefly before he answers, “I’m not allowed to leave London until the trials are over.”

Draco’s insides turn cold and his voice gets hard. “You’re here because you’re required to be,” he asks, except he’s missing the inflection to make it sound like a question.

“Yes,” Harry answers plainly. 

Ron looks between them with an expression of slight confusion and concern.

“So if you were not legally required to be in London, then you would not be here right now?” Draco asks flatly, needing the clarification. 

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Draco says. “Get out.”

“Draco—” Ron says in shock.

“No,” Draco cuts him off, but he doesn’t even look at Ron. His gaze is focused intensely on Harry. “Now you’ve seen that I’m alive and on the mend, so you can leave here guilt-free, without another death on your conscience.”

Draco’s words grow sharper the longer he speaks, and he feels that old twist of smug satisfaction when he sees the way Harry’s flat expression tightens and his jaw flexes at Draco’s rebuke.

Harry swallows, nods shortly and leaves without another word. The room feels so much more empty without his presence.

“Mate…” Ron says, watching him leave with a conflicted look on his face. Then he looks at Draco and says irritably, “Draco.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Draco snaps and looks away, out to the window and the grey storm clouds beyond it.

“He’s been here the entire time waiting to see you,” Ron informs him hotly. 

“He was just waiting to see if I would die or not,” Draco says, feeling hollow.

“He hasn’t slept at all in four nights.”

“I don’t care.”

“He does,” Ron counters angrily. 

“Did you not hear him? He wouldn’t be here at all if he didn’t have to be!” Draco yells, turning a fierce look on Ron.

Ron winces at the harsh sound of his raised voice echoing in the small room.

“Sorry,” Draco mutters.

“It’s fine,” Ron grunts.

Draco takes a deep breath to calm himself. He looks more closely at Ron, and he sees the dark circles under his eyes, the gauntness to his face, and the way his robes hang more loosely from his frame. Draco reminds himself that Ron has been jailed throughout all of this and likely mistreated for much of it.

“How are you? Really?” Draco asks in a softer tone.

Ron shrugs, glancing at Draco and then looking away. “Fine. I’ll live.”

Draco nods, and silence descends over them. 

After a few minutes, Draco breaks it. 

“I’m done, Ron. Consider this my resignation.” 

Ron looks at him, purses his lips and nods.

◊ ◊ ◊

After four more days, Draco is released from the hospital.

Unable to leave the city, Draco can’t stay at the Manor out in Wiltshire. If he goes anywhere outside of London, the tracker on him will go off and alert Aurors to his location. 

Draco decides instead to lease a flat in Diagon Alley, right over Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ogling the new brooms and smelling the leathers and the polishing oils every time he passes by the shop fills him with a nostalgic, boyish wonder and brings him back to the days when his parents would take him here shopping.

Draco hasn’t been to Diagon Alley in years, and living in the bustling space, brimming with magic and all the things Draco loves that are so much a part of him, is like a balm over his soul. It can’t fill the hole Harry left in him when he ripped his heart out, but it’s the best remedy he’s got. That, and wine.

The day after being released from St Mungo’s, Draco has to go into the Ministry to give his statement and get debriefed by Ron for their investigation, as well as give them several memories they can use for the case they are building against Damian.

Midway through, Draco spots a familiar head of wild hair and a black leather jacket that draws his eye out the window of Ron’s office. 

The sight of Harry makes Draco’s whole body ache with longing while his insides churn with bitterness.

Their eyes meet briefly when Harry looks over into Ron’s office and spots Draco. There’s a flash of emotion there, recognition and something else. Guilt, maybe, probably. Draco tells himself it’s definitely not regret over breaking Draco’s heart.

Draco jerks his gaze away and tries to refocus on what Ron is asking him.

He can’t help himself when his gaze moves out of the window again, seeking Harry.

Harry is talking to one of the Aurors, and Draco can’t help but notice the way that Harry’s posture is tense and how his smile looks tight and false because his crow’s feet don’t deepen the way they always do when he is truly happy.

Draco knows how hard Harry must be fighting to keep calm, and how tense he must be feeling from interacting with all these people he knew in his past life. 

Even after Harry hurt him he still can’t help but care about him, and Draco feels disgusted with himself for it.

With an irritable flick of his wand, Draco shuts the blinds and refocuses on Ron.

As the days slide by, Draco tries to find some sort of normalcy in his life. He tries to find a routine to keep his mind off things. But as he goes through his day he’ll make breakfast and find himself thinking of how much better Harry’s cooking is. He’ll pass by a bookshop and the smell will bring him back to those many hours he spent reading to Harry in the garage. 

He starts avoiding using the Floo because the smell of smoke takes him back to so many nights huddled together by the campfire, sharing dinner and their thoughts on everything from pancake recipes to how Muggles landed a spaceship on the Moon. Draco is still suspicious that Harry was pulling his leg when he told him that.

There are times when he doesn’t even need anything to trigger a memory of Harry. He’ll be standing in the bathroom brushing his teeth as normal, and he’ll suddenly remember the way Harry used to look at him, and his chest will fill with so many emotions that he can barely contain it. 

Anger bubbles up in him like a living creature demanding to be let loose upon the world, and for a second Draco is filled with blinding rage, and he just wants to _hurt_ something. He wants to break everything in sight. 

Mostly it’s propriety and growing up in a household of strict manners that keeps him from doing it, but one day it becomes too much. 

One day Draco looks in the mirror, and he hates what he sees. He hates it because he knows at one point Harry looked at this person like he was everything.

Harry sliced Draco open and looked at the worst there was to him, buried deep down, and he still made him feel like he was perfect. But no longer.

That is what hurts the most about Harry dismissing him. It wouldn’t have mattered if it was just sex, but it wasn’t. 

Harry is the only partner he’s ever had that made him feel worth a damn. He’s the only partner who has ever swept away Draco’s insecurities about not being good enough and not deserving happiness.

So many of Draco’s past sexual partners have left him feeling used and worthless, and the worst part of Harry leaving him is that Harry hadn’t done that. 

For a moment he made Draco believe that he was worthy of love, and that’s why Harry is worse than the other men Draco fucked. He has left Draco feeling even more broken and worthless than before.

It fills Draco with a rage that he finally lets loose. 

Draco screams in agony and slams his fist into the mirror. 

He grabs each expensive bottle on the counter and chucks them. He smashes his bottle of cologne against the shower, then his aftershave, then his hair potion until everything within his reach is destroyed.

His boiling hot anger diminishes into grief that sweeps over his body like a cold gust of wind, and Draco sinks to the floor and puts his face in his hands. 

The worst part is that as much as Draco wants to hate Harry, he can’t help that he still loves him.

◊ ◊ ◊

When Draco meets with Ron again, Ron tells him how he, Harry and Hermione have been talking a lot, trying to work through their history, trying to work out how they failed each other as friends and resolve it.

Because he’s an idiot, Draco actually feels happy for them. Harry should have his friends back in his life, it’s something Draco hoped he could convince Harry to do once the case was over. Guess Harry doesn’t need him for that either, Draco muses bitterly.

As Ron goes on about plans to take Harry to their favourite pub, Draco can’t help but feel that soon he is going to be the odd man out. Once Harry mends fences with all his old friends and family, there will be no more space for Draco anymore. 

It’s okay though, Draco tells himself. He is familiar with solitude, and he doesn’t need anyone.

◊ ◊ ◊

Three weeks after Draco woke up in St Mungo’s, Draco gets an owl from Harry. As soon as he recognises the long scrawl of the address, Draco Incendios the letter and shoes away the owl without giving it a treat.

The owl gives him the stink eye, but Draco doesn't have any treats to give it anyway. He hasn’t had a pet in years.

As soon as the owl leaves, Draco regrets his actions. He doesn’t know what Harry could be owling him for, and now he will never know. 

What if it was Harry begging to take Draco back? What if it was one of those letters that say, ‘If you don’t respond to this, then I will know how you feel.’ Except it’s stupid to put the fate of everything all on one letter like that—especially to a volatile man like himself.

Draco paces the kitchen, going through every possibility in his mind of what Harry’s letter could have said when there is a tapping on the window. 

At the sight of the returned owl, Draco rushes to the window to let it in and take the new letter.

Draco feels ridiculously nervous as he looks at the letter and sees that it’s addressed with the same leggy scrawl belonging to Harry.

Carefully, slowly, Draco opens the letter and unfolds it.

> _Draco,  
>  I have a feeling you burned the first letter._

Draco’s heart does a little flip at seeing how well Harry knows him.

> _If you didn’t read the first, I just want to say that I’m sorry for what happened.  
>  Harry_

Draco’s brow furrows as he frowns. He reads the letter again, then turns it over to see if there is anything else to it, but there isn’t.

With an irritated huff, Draco throws the letter in the sink and Incendios it too. 

Fuck Potter and fuck his apology, Draco decides. What does he even think he is apologising for, anyway? For ripping out Draco’s still-beating heart and dancing on it? For starting a relationship with him in the first place? 

No, knowing Harry, he is apologising to Draco for almost killing him, and Draco has no time for such bullshit. 

Draco notices the owl still hanging about, either waiting for a reply or a treat, and he waves it off irritably and gets bitten for it.

◊ ◊ ◊

When Draco gets lunch with Ron at a cafe in Diagon Alley, Ron seems worried about him, but Draco waves it off.

Ron updates him on the investigation, telling him what he can. Many of the witches and wizards who sided with Damian were discovered to have large deposits of money put into their vaults regularly. 

Draco almost can’t believe it. “You mean they weren’t Imperiused? They weren’t drugged with potions? They weren’t at least Confunded? It was all just for money?” he asks incredulously. 

“Yup.” Ron pops the ‘p’. “That’s what it looks like.”

It is the age-old motivator, Draco supposes. 

“And Damian? He was stealing other witches and wizards magic and killing them for what?”

“Well, he still won’t talk so we don’t know exactly from him. But a lot of his men have said that he found a way to transfer magic person to person. He was selling magic to Muggles, we’re not sure how he was able to transfer the magic cores without it killing them, but it’s very old, very dark magic that he was using. We still don’t know much about the spell, and the Unspeakables took over that area of the investigation.”

“He was doing it for _money?_ ” Draco asks, even more incredulous. 

Ron shakes his head. “Apparently. It’s how he built his little empire. He called himself the Magnate and was funding all sorts of Dark ventures in illegal potions, human experiments, trafficking, name it,” Ron says with a shake of his head. “Although there was also some tripe about spreading the wealth of magic around, that it shouldn’t be kept from Muggles, and no one person should have more power than another. Apparently he believed he was going to stop anymore Voldemorts or Dumbledores from happening. You know, wizards with too much power.”

Draco furrows his brow and hums. “Yet he inadvertently made Harry more powerful.”

“Yeah, he did,” Ron agrees. “At least he wasn’t building an army of witches and wizards like that.”

“At least there’s that,” Draco huffs.

“The Obliviators have had their hands full trying to track down these Muggles Damian gave magic to, and any others who knew about it. Actually, we’ve got a lot of departments working on this case. What’s left after the purge anyway. Damian was paying off a lot of people in the Ministry.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

Ron tells him how Percy is personally overseeing the case and that the Aurors are mainly in charge of building the case against Damian, since their department is the one most left intact after the purge and since half the Wizengamot is now under investigation for corruption.

“It’s probably going to take a long time before we actually get to the trials. We get new information every day, find out even more of the messed up stuff they were doing, but we’re building the case slowly,” Ron says. “So you’ll be stuck in London for a while.”

Draco nods.

“Harry is going to be stuck here awhile too,” Ron adds meaningfully.

“That’s fine, I’ve been enjoying living in Diagon, right at the heart of London’s magical community,” Draco says, blithely ignoring Ron’s comment about Harry. “It’s a relief to finally be in a place that makes sense. Not to mention everyone thinking I’m a hero is a nice bonus. I get free ice cream at Fortescue’s.”

“Yeah, that’s got to be nice. You always were an attention-seeking diva,” Ron teases him and Draco smacks his shoulder.

Ron is ripping up his napkin like needs to keep his hands busy. 

“Harry asks about you, you know,” Ron says carefully, and Draco tuts and looks away dryly. 

“Of course he does, I’m a celebrity now.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “We’ve been trying to get him to meet up with the family, but he hasn’t wanted to see anyone other than us. And Luna, I know she’s been visiting him. I think he’s having a tough time with the transition.”

Draco scoffs. “No doubt. I’m sure his guilt is just tearing him up inside,” he says sardonically, though he can’t help the way the thought twists at his gut. 

He had always planned on being there for Harry, on supporting him and helping him transition back into the Wizarding World and back into the lives of the people he left behind. 

“I know he misses you,” Ron tries again softly.

“Not enough,” Draco growls and glares at a corner of the cafe.

Draco thinks that if Harry misses him then he should be the one to tell Draco that, not Ron. If he wants Draco back in his life then he will actually have to fucking do something about it. Like grovelling. A lot of grovelling. 

Ron gets a constipated look on his face, like he wants to say more, and he knows Draco is being difficult on purpose, but he doesn’t say anything else on the matter. 

Draco knew he made a mistake when he told Ron about what happened between Harry and him, but Ron had Flooed in during a particularly low point and Draco might have been pissed out of his gourd when it all came pouring out of him.

◊ ◊ ◊

A few days later, Draco gets another owl from Harry.

Draco’s heart thunders in his chest as he reads the request to meet, and then he reads it again and again and tries to figure out what it means and how he should respond. 

The owl gets impatient with him, and Draco has to give it a biscuit to avoid getting bitten a second time as he works out his thoughts.

Draco first thinks about asking Harry to meet him for lunch somewhere, but then he throws that idea away. If they’re going to fight, or talk about delicate subjects, or...or try to make up, then Draco doesn’t want anyone else privy to that conversation. 

When Draco sends his reply to Harry, his hands are shaking and he is sweating because he is so nervous. He hates how Harry can do this to him. Draco has never been so shaken by anyone before and he hates that Harry can reduce him to this with one stupid little letter. 

A few hours later, after he has cleaned up and given himself enough time to sober up, Draco finds himself pacing his living room with his robes swishing around him. Draco is set on meeting Harry in wizarding clothes—no more Muggle clothes for him. 

Harry is due to come over soon and Draco can’t stop moving and fidgeting. He starts to prepare the tea and he nearly jumps out of his skin when there’s a knock at the door. 

Draco moves to answer it. He takes a deep breath, then opens the door to his flat. 

And there is Harry, looking just the same with his short beard, scruffy jeans, and leather jacket, plus the tingle of magic that always hangs about him.

Draco swallows and schools his features, valiantly fighting back all the emotions that rise to the surface at seeing him again. 

“Harry, come in,” Draco says and waves him inside. 

Harry nods, his lips moving up briefly in the hint of a smile before he moves past Draco into the flat.

As he breezes by, Draco unintentionally catches a hint of the smell of him. The current of air that passes carries the scent of leather and smoke and _Harry,_ and it makes Draco’s chest tighten with longing. 

“Have a seat,” Draco directs him, pushing down all the memories Harry’s scent brings up. Harry nods and follows his direction.

Draco heads into the kitchen as the kettle startles to whistle. He pours the water into the teapot and carries the tea service out to the living room. He sets it on the coffee table and takes a seat on the couch. 

Harry is sitting in an armchair which Draco had moved across from the couch so that they wouldn’t be sitting side by side for this chat. He is looking around the flat curiously, and then his eyes land on Draco.

“I’m surprised you picked this place to live,” Harry enters with. “Thought you would have gone for something a little more…” Harry trails off as if searching for the right word, likely trying to land on something that Draco won’t find offensive. 

“Opulent?” Draco supplies with a small curl of his lip. Harry’s eyes flash guiltily before he nods. “No, I don’t care much about that anymore. I just wanted to be surrounded by magic.” 

Draco leaves off the part where he loves his little flat because it feels comforting after all the time he spent with Harry in cramped spaces. It feels more like home to him now than any opulent manor could.

Harry nods slowly in understanding.

“You wanted to talk?” Draco prompts him and leans over the tray to pour out two cups of tea. He fixes his own cup and leaves Harry to deal with his. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, and his eyes drop and he rubs his palms down his thighs. “I wanted to apologise in person. For what I did.”

The hand lifting Draco’s teacup to his mouth stops midway. He looks Harry over sharply, then sets his cup back down on its saucer with a harsh clack. 

“You mean you’re sorry that your magic nearly killed me?” he clarifies curtly. 

Harry’s gaze darts up to him as his brow furrows and he nods.

Draco purses his lips. He folds his hands in his lap, straightens his posture, and looks down at Harry as he says evenly, “Okay. Is that all?”

Harry’s expression looks mildly surprised and then confused. 

“Draco—” he begins, but Draco cuts him off.

“No. I don’t want your apology for that. I already got your letter,” Draco snaps. “So if that’s all you have to say, then you can leave.”

Harry’s eyes shift back and forth between Draco’s, like he can’t understand him. “I almost killed you,” he says incredulously. 

“No, you almost killed Damian,” Draco corrects him tersely. “I chose to get in the way of that. _I_ chose to stop you from doing something I knew you’d regret for the rest of your life.”

Harry is quiet as he watches Draco, then he says, “But I do regret it.”

“Why? It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t your fault. Don’t use me as another prop for your own self-hatred.”

Harry’s lips part but he doesn’t say anything, looking like he doesn’t know how to respond.

“I don’t know why you would even bother coming out here just for that. We already know I’m not worth your time.” Draco can’t help himself from making at least one more caustic remark. Harry made him vulnerable and then hurt him and it’s taking everything in Draco not to lash out at him for it. 

Harry’s brow furrows. “I didn’t say that.”

“That’s right, you didn’t say anything,” Draco snaps and he has to look away and focus his gaze on a spot over Harry’s shoulder instead. “No one is worthy of the great and powerful Harry Potter. I’m sure you’ll be very happy going back to your life of quiet misery. Saint Potter, seeking penance for all his misdeeds in solitude.”

“It’s not like that,” Harry grits out with a frustrated tone.

Draco snorts. “What does it matter? You’ve already decided there’s no ‘us’ so who cares what I think?”

“Draco,” Harry begins heavily, and Draco snaps his gaze back to him. 

Draco watches him blankly, and when Harry doesn’t continue his thought, Draco says, “What?”

The skin around Harry’s mouth tightens and the lines in his forehead deepen. He wets his lips and swallows, but he doesn’t say anything.

“If you have nothing else to say, then leave,” Draco spits.

Harry looks conflicted, but after a moment he gets up and leaves Draco’s flat. 

As soon as the door clicks shut, Draco drops his face into his hands. He breathes deeply and tells himself not to break down.

◊ ◊ ◊

Draco floats around in a daze for the next week. He doesn’t shower, he barely remembers to eat, he just drinks wine and sleeps a lot.

Harry owls him a week after their meeting, and Draco Incendios it. 

Another owl comes the next day, and Draco Incendios that letter too. And the letter that comes the next day, and the day after that. 

Draco gets an owl from Rita looking to set up an interview with him and Harry, and he burns it right along with Harry’s letter.

Ron stops in when Draco starts ignoring his owls too. He tells Draco that he’s just as bad as Harry and they deserve each other and to please stop ignoring his owls. 

Draco begrudgingly agrees, but only to get Ron out of his face. 

After a week of burning Harry’s letters they are still coming, and one day Draco hesitates. 

He stares at the new letter in indecision for ten minutes before angrily tearing it open. If Harry is trying this hard to tell him something then fine, Draco will read it and see if it’s even worth his time. If it’s another apology Draco thinks he’ll explode.

When he pulls the letter out, something else falls out of the envelope and flutters to the floor. 

Draco’s heart jumps when he sees the deep purple clematis, and he picks it up delicately and stares at it.

> _Will you come see me this afternoon?  
>  I want to talk. Please._
> 
> _Harry  
>  12 Grimmauld Place_

Draco reads it over and over, then he falls back onto his couch and stares at the clematis. He smooths a finger up and down one of the soft petals.

Three hours later, Draco is standing on Harry’s doorstep. He is freshly bathed, clean shaven, sober, and wearing clean clothes for the first time in a week. His heart pounds and he has to take a deep breath before he knocks.

Harry answers barely two seconds later. He almost looks surprised to see Draco, and then his expression settles into something more neutral. But there are hints there of nervousness that are apparent to Draco’s eye.

“Draco, come in,” Harry says softly and steps aside. 

The hall Draco steps into is dark and narrow. There is an atrocious troll leg umbrella stand just inside the landing, and a heavy curtain hanging along one wall.

Harry closes the door and looks to Draco. Draco opens his mouth to speak, but Harry stops him when he quickly puts a finger to his own lips. He gestures Draco to follow him into the house. The deeper in they go, the stronger the sterile smell of cleaning charms and cleaning agents becomes.

“I didn’t think you would have kept this place,” Draco comments curiously when they’re in the living room. 

Harry sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I didn’t, not really. Gave it to Ron and Hermione to do what they wanted with it before I left. I figured they’d have sold it.”

“But they didn’t,” Draco states the obvious and Harry nods. “Maybe because they were hoping you’d come back to it one day.”

Harry’s mouth twists and he shrugs again, and Draco bites back the urge to lecture Harry about it.

Draco is a nervous ball of energy and tension, and he can only stand the silence so long before he has to break it.

“Well? You said you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly and meets Draco’s gaze. “Ron told me you quit.”

Draco frowns and narrows his eyes at Harry, but he nods confirmation.

“So you’re not going back to undercover work?”

“No. I’m not,” Draco answers flatly. He’s not sure what he expected of this meeting, but being interrogated about his employment status certainly wasn’t it. 

“Okay...I didn’t,” Harry begins haltingly and looks away from Draco as he speaks. “That night, what I told you—”

“You mean when you broke up with me? When you sidelined me by telling me that apparently our relationship meant nothing?” Draco clarifies impatiently. 

“That’s not what I said,” Harry argues.

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“Draco, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry for that,” Harry says, and his stupid eyes look so sincere about it.

“So you keep saying, but I don’t want your apologies,” Draco snaps.

For a second Harry looks like he’s going to apologise again, but he catches himself and takes a deep breath.

“Okay, then just listen. I care about you. A lot.” He pauses, like this is supposed to be a big revelation or something.

“I know,” Draco drawls irately. Harry blinks, and Draco rolls his eyes. “Obviously you care about me. You think I didn’t already know that? I’m not fucking blind. But it doesn’t matter what you feel about me. What matters are your actions. And you broke—” Draco only just stops himself from saying ‘my heart’. “—my trust.” 

Harry looks like he’s been slapped.

“You made me feel like we had something. Something important. Something _good._ And then you told me that it wasn’t worth anything to you,” Draco says, fighting to keep his voice stable enough to get the words out. 

“That’s not it at all, Draco, please,” Harry says urgently.

“Then what? Why would you say that? Why would you do that to me?” Draco demands, needing answers to the questions that have been plaguing him these long weeks.

“Because I thought you were leaving me,” Harry says in a rush, and Draco’s brow furrows in confusion. “All you could talk about was getting back to your old life, about hating living like a Muggle, about how you couldn’t wait for your ordeal to be over so you could return to the Wizarding World.”

Draco is quiet as he processes this, then he says, “Well, yes, of course I wanted to return. This is all I’ve ever known. I love magic, I love using it, I love living around it,” Draco says, “but I was planning on bringing you with me.”

Harry bites his lip, then asks hesitantly, “And if I didn’t want to go? Then what?”

“Then we would have worked it out!” Draco yells, and Harry closes his eyes briefly and sighs. 

“Okay, sure, we could have done, but it wasn’t just that. I thought you were planning on going back to undercover work,” Harry says with a pained expression. “I thought you were going to…”

Draco waits, but Harry swallows and doesn’t finish. “Spread my legs for any lowlife I investigated?” Draco completes the thought for him.

Harry winces, like he doesn’t like the way Draco phrases it, but he looks at Draco and nods. “Yes. And that’s—that’s fine. I’m not judging you for any decisions you make for a case. Christ, I’m the last person who could ever judge you for that, okay?” 

Harry looks so earnest about it and Draco nods stiffly, though he still feels prickly and defensive.

“But I can’t—I’m sorry, I’m just not the kind of person who could deal with that. I know it makes me sound like a jealous arsehole, but I couldn’t stand the thought of other men touching you. Using you...maybe hurting you. It would have driven me mad.”

Draco purses his lips, but gives another tight nod. He understands; he wouldn’t be able to handle anyone else touching Harry either. And he did throw it in Harry’s face during one of their rows. Before he can say anything about it though, Harry continues.

“But it really wasn’t just that either. Ultimately, if you went back to it, to your old lifestyle, when could we have been together? For a couple weeks between cases? How could we have a relationship if we never saw each other for months or years on end? You know how impossible it is to have a relationship with a job like that.” Harry pauses, rubbing his lips together and shaking his head a little. “And I couldn’t handle that either. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us—stringing a relationship along, trying to cram it all in between cases.”

Harry takes a deep breath and looks at Draco, his expression more open than Draco has seen it in weeks. Draco swallows hard. He hates it, but he understands where Harry is coming from.

“I don’t want that,” Harry says adamantly. “I don’t want to only be a small part of your life. I want you every day. I want you in the kitchen, arguing with me about my pancake recipe. I want you in my workshop, talking my ear off. I want you in bed with me every night, singing me to sleep.”

Draco’s chest feels too small to contain the swell of emotion rising up and filling every inch of him. He needs to take a few breaths to loosen his throat enough to speak.

“I was never going to return to it. I had already decided I was going to quit,” Draco says, beating down the urge to throw himself at Harry. “You would have known that if you had just asked me.”

Harry winces. “I know, I’m so—” He cuts off the apology with a sharp look from Draco. “—I’m an arsehole.”

Draco worries his lips angrily. He’s not sure what to say yet, or if he could respond to any of that without breaking down.

They are both silent for a moment, before Harry quietly says, “Living here, in this house. It feels...empty.”

Draco’s brow furrows. “Maybe you should get a Crup, I hear they make nice companions,” he says, using snark to cover how vulnerable he feels. 

“I mean that it doesn’t feel right,” Harry says carefully, “living without you.”

Draco looks back at him, eyes searching Harry’s face. He looks so sad and sincere, and Draco hates him and he kind of really loves him too. 

“Move in with me?” Harry asks, like the tactless arsehole he is.

Draco’s expression twists in anger and frustration and hurt. He shoves Harry, and Harry’s hands shoot out of his pockets to catch his balance as he stumbles back a couple steps. 

“Harry James Potter, I am so cross with you! You have no idea!” Draco yells at him, pointing an accusatory finger in his face. 

Harry looks shocked at first, and then wary. He bites his bottom lip and Draco hates how he finds the gesture endearing. 

Draco loves Harry, he loves him so fucking much he could toss him out a window right now. 

Draco doesn’t understand how Harry can so casually ask him to move in, how he can so easily explain why he broke Draco’s heart and then offer him everything he wants most. 

“You wouldn’t even be standing here, apologising and asking me to come back if the Ministry hadn’t forced you to say in London,” Draco points out bitterly.

Harry swallows and nods slowly, his expression grim. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“So why would I ever agree? You’re only asking me now because of convenient circumstances,” Draco spits.

“Because I would have regretted leaving you for the rest of my life! Because who cares what the circumstances are that made me realise that? I have enough regrets to know that when you’re given an opportunity you take it,” Harry says vehemently, almost angrily. “I never should have broken things off with you, and I hate how it happened. I know I hurt you, but I’ll do whatever it takes to make up for that. I will spend the rest of my life trying to earn your trust back because you _are_ worth it to me.”

Draco’s face pinches and he swallows to fight down the flood of emotions that follow those words. His throat closes and his eyes sting, but he doesn’t want Harry to see how watery they are. 

“You are worth it, Draco. More than. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, and I would have to be the biggest fool to not try to get you back,” Harry says emphatically. “Just say it and I’ll do it. I’ll get on my knees and beg. I’ll steal the Crown Jewels for you. I’ll break into the Minister’s office and debag Percy. I’ll—”

Draco strides forward, grabs Harry’s face and pulls him into a fierce kiss. He squeezes his eyes shut and gasps in relief when Harry grabs him and clings to him just as desperately. 

Draco grips Harry’s hair tightly, maybe too tightly, as he presses needy kisses to Harry’s lips again and again. Harry doesn’t mind his roughness, he holds Draco just as hard and meets every kiss.

“I’m still furious with you,” Draco tells him when they manage to pull apart.

“I know,” Harry says, his expression turning sober. “I know you are. And you should be. Just give me a chance to make it up to you.”

Draco’s eyes narrow briefly as he studies Harry. He hates what Harry put him through, but more than that he wants to try to fix this. “If you ever do that to me again…”

“I won’t,” Harry promises. 

Draco doesn’t put much stock in promises, but he will always put stock in Harry Potter.


	15. Epilogue

A month later, Draco is somewhat moved in with Harry. He still has his flat in Diagon and much of his stuff is there. They are still sorting through their issues, and sometimes Draco spends a day or two at his flat to get a little space, but mostly he stays with Harry. 

Grimmauld Place has been empty for years and every day has been an uphill battle to clear out the pests and clean the place up, but even under all the dust Draco can see how much potential it has. 

Harry seemed uncertain when he offered it as their permanent residence, and he offered to sell it instead so they could get something else, but Draco loves it. He loves that it’s connected to both of their histories, while also being a Muggle property. He loves the narrow, cosy feel to it that remind him of Harry’s Muggle home, and he knows Harry likes that too. It seems like the perfect blend of their tastes in style—of magic and Muggle, and of Draco’s more refined taste but in a cosier space. 

Now that they have gotten the boggart out of the attic, they have been going through all the old heirlooms and miscellany that have been tucked away up here for years.

This house is like a goldmine to Draco, and he has no idea how so many wonderful pieces survived. He has been adamant about looking over every object carefully to determine its age, condition, and value before deciding whether to put it in the Keep pile or the Toss pile. 

It’s turned the cleaning process sluggish and he knows it’s driving Harry up the wall, that and the fact that Draco’s Keep pile is the much larger of the two. 

Draco has been carefully examining an old tapestry of an Erkling luring children to an inevitable and grisly death. It’s really quite creepy, but after some consideration Draco puts it in his Keep pile. 

“Seriously, Draco? You’re going to keep _that_ thing?” Harry asks incredulously.

“You told me I can keep whatever I want,” Draco says breezily. 

“Within reason!” Harry repeats for probably the hundredth time. 

Draco waves him off dismissively. “I am the last remaining Black, a Noble and Most Ancient House—”

“Oh my God,” Harry swears under his breath. “Never should have shown you her portrait.”

“—and it is my duty to see that our Noble and Most Ancient History is not being destroyed by a plebeian like you,” Draco talks blithely over Harry’s muttering, pretending like he doesn’t hear it.

The next item Draco picks up is a fertility statue. It’s a gnome, complete with an unshapely, potato-like head, a mouth full of sharp teeth, and an enormous, erect dong which is carved in intricate detail and is taller than it is.

“We are not keeping that,” Harry says staunchly, but Draco ignores him and examines the statue thoughtfully, running through his usual spells to determine its age and if it’s been charmed. 

All the while he talks of his findings, of how ancient it is and how it’s in surprisingly good condition for its age, and then he starts in on the important part in wizarding history that gnome fertility statues have played. 

“...in fact, my own mother believed it was the magic from her gnome fertility statue that finally allowed my father’s seed to take root and impregnate her with me.”

Harry looks unamused and distinctly like he doesn’t believe a word Draco is saying. 

“We’re keeping it,” Draco decides and waves it over onto the Keep pile.

Harry groans in frustration and throws his hands up. “Are you joking?”

“I never joke when it comes to the history of my family, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” Draco says imperiously with his nose in the air. 

Harry covers his face and shakes his head.

“It’s like dealing with bloody Kreacher all over again…” Harry mutters under his breath.

Draco pretends like he didn’t just hear Harry compare him to a grotty old house elf, because then he catches the fond smile on Harry’s lips, and when Harry looks back and makes eye contact with Draco, Harry’s smile widens and his crow’s feet deepen. Draco’s heart fills with warmth at the sight of it.

◊ ◊ ◊

Later that night after they have finished dinner, Draco takes their plates to the kitchen and washes them. When he’s finished, he goes looking for Harry and is surprised to not find him in the living room.

“Harry?” Draco calls. 

“In here,” he hears Harry answer from upstairs. 

Curious, Draco follows his voice upstairs into Harry’s bedroom. Draco’s mouth drops open at the scene.

Nearly every surface in the room is covered in lit tea candles, and there is a trail of rose petals leading from the door to the bed. The bed where Harry is sprawled out on his side, naked, with his head propped up in one hand and a red rose held between his teeth. 

Draco clutches at the doorjamb while he laughs. 

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” Draco gasps out. “Are you trying to burn the house down?”

Harry takes the rose out of his mouth and points it at Draco. “Seduction,” he says with a sultry look. “Is it working?”

Draco laughs and shakes his head. He moves into the room, stops by the bed and eyes Harry’s body salaciously, though he feels a small flutter of nerves in his stomach.

Draco has been taking things slow and they have yet to have sex since getting back together, because he has been nervous about opening himself up again to that level of raw emotion and vulnerability. 

The slightly worried sensation in his gut is tempered when he notices the subtle hints of nervousness in Harry’s expression. Harry’s throat bobs and his eyes jump back and forth between Draco’s as he waits for an answer.

“And what did you have in mind?” Draco asks and quirks an eyebrow at him. He runs his fingers over the sheets at the edge of the bed, and then takes the rose when Harry offers it to him. 

“Well, seeing how adeptly you handled that statue got me all hot and bothered,” Harry begins slowly in a smoky voice and Draco throws his head back on a laugh. “And I want your sweet love arrow to pierce my most treasured haven and fill it with a salty offering.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco says in fond exasperation. “An offering to the fertility gnome?”

“That’s right,” Harry says with a wiggle of his eyebrows and they both laugh. 

Draco grins at Harry and idly smells the rose while he pretends to be thinking it over. 

Draco has been nervous about jumping back into bed with Harry, but he thinks that this sounds like the perfect reintroduction to the bed for them. 

He knows sex with Harry will always be intense and more emotional than he’s used to, but avoiding the intensity of a prostate orgasm feels a little safer to Draco—less vulnerable. 

Harry probably knows his feelings on the matter, and Draco is touched by the thoughtful offer. As ridiculous as it is, Draco loves the way that Harry broke the ice with humour. 

“Or we don’t have to do anything,” Harry says softly, reaching for Draco and brushing his fingers over the hand Draco has on the bed. “We can wait.”

Draco smiles and turns his hand so he can interlace their fingers. “No, I think that sounds perfect,” he says.

Harry’s smile is warm and relieved as Draco climbs into bed with him. 

Harry undressed Draco and they lay together for long minutes, exchanging soft, slow kisses and running their hands over each other’s bodies. 

When Draco is ready, he gets Harry on his back and opens him up with his fingers slowly, all while murmuring praises and affections into Harry’s skin. 

Draco fucks him in long, slow thrusts, working them both up to orgasm in a soft, unhurried pace. 

They kiss deeply throughout and watch each other with affection and love and hope. 

Afterward, they lay together in a shared comfortable silence, and Draco makes plans for the next day. He’ll give his landlord notice on his lease, and then he will move the rest of his things into Grimmauld Place, because he knows that the only place he wants to call home anymore is with Harry.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Sword Laid Aside Illustrations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16078892) by [Saulaie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saulaie/pseuds/Saulaie)




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